Lapis Lazuli, or: Like No Other, You Can't Be Replaced
by brit.brutal
Summary: (Long Hiatus) Shrieking Shack Society 2017 Marauder Medal Best AU nominee. Non-MagicAU. Small College Town AU. Remus is Hermione's professor. Both feeling alienated by the gossipy, secretive town around them, they eventually find solace in their work and in the company of each other. But there is a darkness here that reaches for them. Slow burn.(Lily Ron bashing)
1. Chapter 1

**Longer Summary:** Hermione has earned a research fellowship at a small college. Remus is her faculty advisor and lives a fractured life. Hermione struggles to make her old life and relationships from back home work. Both feeling alienated by the cramped and gossipy town around them, they eventually find solace in their work and in the company of each other. But there is a darkness here that reaches for them, particularly concerning a secret cult that calls itself the Death Eaters, along with townsfolk who have been cursed in their own ways.

Set in 1999 amongst Y2K paranoia. AU/skewed birth years. Hermione is 24 and Remus is 39.

Non Magic AU, but Remus is still a werewolf and Sirius is a clairvoyant.

(Title and subtitle are derived from Beach House's 'Lazuli)

 **Disclaimer:** Everything is J.K. Rowling's; am just borrowing for a bit to see if I can make these characters do anything interesting.

 **A/N:** I just really want a Remus/Hermione piece where they come to be in an eventual student/professor relationship in a college setting.

OMFG I AM SO BAD AT EXPOSITION...

Apologies for any spelling or grammatical errors. I've combed over it many times. I use Ulysses to write on and am still learning its nuances and sometimes miss issues.

Also, I am afogocado on AO3, where you may have already ran across this piece. I will update it here and there are chapters are written.

'This is how autumn always seems to come,' she thinks, as she enjoys her walk. There is an intoxicating drop of romanticism entwined within this thought and it is equally lovely as it is jarring once she realizes another year is about to be gone and she won't get to spend it with those she loves best. But there is a slight hope that the beauty in the fading sky gives her—she will indeed begin again. She doesn't know that in time, in this place, she will find something she never thought she was looking for.

The sun is falling away to the far off horizon in a soft burst of cerulean skies streaked pink, mingling with a soft glow of the early evening's light. Hermione can feel the summer struggling to resist autumn, but failing, and she relishes in its failure. The temperature, much like each evening's sunset, drops little by little every night. It is a slightly warm sixty-five degrees outside and she is remorseful for leaving her cardigan back at the studio apartment she moved into earlier in the day when it was much warmer and held more humidity. Her bushy hair must have soaked up all of said humidity, for it lay in bushier and frizzier unruly coils—she has been considering cutting it short. Perhaps even in a pixie fashion. She can hear her best friend, Ginny's, protests merely at the thought of it being shorn.

Hermione Granger is on her way to a cocktail party that Lucius Malfoy is having at his massive home, just on the outskirts of the college's small campus. He holds these parties at the start of every fall semester for faculty and his fellow Board of Trustee members, meant as an icebreaker of sorts. All graduate students get an invitation in their school emails and are encouraged, though not required, to attend. Hermione, ever the eager student, is flush with excitement at the prospect of spending more personal time with her professors at this new school and grateful for the opportunity to introduce herself to them before classes start. She has repeatedly reminded herself that though this is a semi-professional soiree, she should still allow herself to have fun and not bog herself with anything too serious so early on. Easier said than done.

She has always loved school and learning, but she is even more excited at the fact that graduate students (especially Ph.D. candidates like herself) are considered to be colleagues (albeit, amateurish and junior colleagues) to full-time tenured and associate professors. She will no longer be the obnoxious over-achiever and teachers pet, as she had been labeled as such in her undergraduate studies, but instead, a near equal. 'Graduate school is everything those with a thirst for knowledge and passion for academia wanted in their undergraduate studies, but may not have experienced,' she was told by a former teacher after she informed them of her fully-funded acceptance into Godric Hollow's College of Arts and Liberal Studies.

The college isn't very recognizable to many outside of the circle of disciplines she has spent the past near-decade entwined in. For those _in_ the circle, this place is extremely well-known and houses some of the top, most brilliant minds. So much so that the emeritus professors are hailed as pioneers in their specific fields. She gushes at these thoughts, hoping that the professors in question would be there tonight.

Hermione is walking to the Malfoy home—everything in town is walkable and convenient, and even though everything is so tight-knit and spatially close, there is still a sense of isolated foreboding and a sublime tug that the dying trees and gothic architecture exude. Also, she isn't sure how much she is going to drink since libations are free, and didn't want to worry about driving or embarrassingly leaving her car at the place and having to come get it the next day, as she was wont to do in her younger years whenever she managed to spend too much time at a house party. She is contemplating the line between house party and professional shindig and preparing herself for appropriate decorum—not that she would ever be inappropriate! She shakes her head, trying to stop over-thinking it all.

She crosses paths with young people her age out on an early evening stroll and enjoying the last bits of warm weather before it becomes too chilly to relish wearing shorts and a simple t-shirt, as they are currently dressed. Some are with friends, and some are walking pets on leashes. Most are dogs, but there is even a lone gangly, dark-haired man walking his cat. She smiles at the sight, trying to talk herself into doing the same thing with her orange, squashy-faced feline familiar, Crookshanks. However, she is sure Crookshanks would be much like the man's own grey tabby: he would just throw himself upon a patch of warm grass and lazily fling his tail around until she scooped him up into her arms and hauled him home.

Hermione, lost in thoughts about Crookshanks, almost failed to notice that she has come upon some spaced-out houses on the correct street, and checks them against the address she hastily scribbled on her palm earlier. These homes are set in front of a wooded area, and leading into the wooded area is a gravel driveway that twists and disappears beyond the trees. She figures this is the way and she feels a jolt of nervous flutter in her stomach. She has gotten better with things like this over the years as as she has matured, but even now at twenty-four, she feels like a young teenager again starting a school year all over again and worrying about how her peers would treat her.

She bites her bottom lip tentatively as her feet pick up the pace and she all but scurries down the dark and unnerving path. There's a niggling thought in the back of her mind that this is all a ruse—some kind of hazing scare tactic to initiate herself into this new world of academia. She is scandalized at the thought and hopes this is only some wild fabrication never to become realized.

'Okay, relax,' she tries to calm herself, inhaling deep and slow breaths of the small forest's clean air into her lungs. It isn't easy to remain relaxed as she looks around once more at the immaculate hedges that line the walk up to the front. There are even hedge animals and she shivers at the thought that some of them may be watching her.

She smiles, a jittery feat, and finds herself in front of what appears to be more of an ornate building adorned with columns and lion statues rather than an actual home. Surely, Mr. Malfoy didn't live here on his own or even with a small family? When she first got the email, only days ago, this is not what she had expected. Although, the title 'manor' plastered upon the home's name now makes more sense.

Though she feels calmer now, her hand does shake when she reaches for an antiquated knocker on the front door. She balls her hand into a steady fist before uncurling her slender fingers once more and wrapping them around the knocker's silver loop. She taps it gingerly, wincing because it sounds all too loud to her, though the forest or anything around her hears nothing at all.

No answer.

She makes a fist again and knocks several times.

Nothing again.

A crow's caw signals the end of the day. An owl's hoot welcomes the night.

She harrumphs and checks the time on her wristwatch. She isn't super late. The invitation indicated a time frame in which invitees could come: it advised that any time within the frame would be fine. Not wanting to look way too eager, she talked herself into waiting for about an hour to pass before showing up. Mr. Malfoy would have the festivities going on until about midnight, which she didn't find outrageous, but very interesting. Surely everyone wouldn't stay all night like that?

Deciding that since a lot of people have been invited to this thing, there was probably an open door policy in place. She resolves to test this theory out and pushes one of the doors open, and finds herself treading lightly into the foyer.

The outside aesthetic has definitely been recycled into the interior of the manor. It is definitely akin to a castle, or what she thought the inside of one ought to look like from her past experiences reading about them. The ceilings run high, and heavy satin emerald curtains are drawn around the large windows that line every wall. She hears voices in the distance and follows the sound into what appears to be a dining _hall_ more so than a dining _room_.

The room is full with chatter. Hermione tries to navigate where to stand, but deices to get something to drink before jumping into any conversation. Her eyes scan the room, quickly in search of what she needs when her gaze stops at the center of the room.

There sits a long and impressive table, all full with plates of different finger foods and at the foot of it, an elaborated champagne fountain that Hermione finds far more tacky than anything. All chairs have been drawn away from the long table and are now occupied by wallflowers pressed into the shadows of the room, pursuing what appear to be very private conversations, or are purposefully avoiding everyone else—almost as though they are merely here to put in an appearance before they can vanish. Meanwhile, others are treat the long table more so as a bar, cluttering it with their drinks and food stuffs, and lean against it as thought it isn't the most expensive piece of dining room furniture they've ever seen in their lives.

On her way to the end of the room where it looks like a small bar has been established—she would like to avoid the champagne fountain, especially now that she sees a cheese cube and nearly disintegrated piece of bread floating in a glass— her ears perk up at a nearby conversation being held by a tall, slender wizened looking man. He's wearing half-moon spectacles and a suit made from a violent shade of violet. He is speaking to a much shorter man whose face is ruddy, and the shorter man sips greedily from his pint of ale as he pushes his glasses up his nose with his free hand. They steadily fall down with every vehement nod or shake of his head at the tall man. The short man plays with his wispy mustache, as though it is fake and he cannot get it to lie flat.

"As I've told you before, Filius," the taller of the two goes on, stroking his beard with his free hand and raising his brow. "Foucault was spot-on with his ideas of panopticism. I don't understand how you can continue to deny his brilliance in the way he has established himself as one of the most influential Western thinkers on the condition of western culture itself under a prying government. The only proof you need is to see how heavily surveilled our society becomes as technology grows more intrusive and further permeates our lives, privately and publicly." He is gesticulating wildly with his long-since empty wine glass.

"Albus, surely you must be aware of the Millennium Bug coming along at the end of this year. It shall wipe out technology as we know it, plunging civilization into a dark age. We will be thrusted into a Hobbesian state of nature, with a lack of a sovereign body ruling us. You will turn to our 'archaic' thinkers in time, for they alone have the best ideas of how to survive in a world without the luxuries of modernity."

"Then let us drink to that to celebrate and welcome our more feral sides of nature."

Hermione is sure that the language and postulations in these arguments would have been more cleverly organized and stated had they not already been drinking. She would love to know what else the two thought about Foucault, particularly on his theses about power, and what Hobbes would hypothetically say to Foucault, had they been contemporaries. She feels a more urgent need to hurry up and find a drink to clutch to as a protective shield so she may brave such conversations.

She makes it over to the bar, which is a smaller table adorned with towers of pint sized glasses and wine glasses. Opened and unopened bottles of wine leave a trail off to the side and there are kegs of beer on the floor sitting in sweating metallic buckets of ice. The proprietor of the makeshift bar is a ridiculously handsome older man with a mischievous glint in his dark eyes as he scans the crowd, watching people drink. He's wearing tight fitting charcoal gray slacks and a tight fitting stark white button down shirt. Apparently, he'd tried to wear a bowtie tonight, but it already lay untied and loose through the shirt's collar. The shirt is now unbuttoned down to his chest to show off the dark sprinkling of hair against his pale skin. Women near the bar stare daggers at her when she approaches him. She feels herself flush when his smile full of perfect teeth offer her a cheeky, but charming grin.

"Help you, kitten?" He asks, brushing layers of his near-shoulder length raven hair out of his face. His gray eyes are steely as he takes in her appearance and calculates what he thinks her to be.

"Er…yes, actually." She is amazed at how she doesn't scold him for calling her such an absurd pet name. Perhaps she just doesn't want to cause a riff or make a scene so early on. He seems like the kind of person to get away with giving complete strangers nicknames all the time. "I'd like something to drink."

"You've come to the correct spot." He waves his hand over the table's surface, much like a magician waving his own over a deck of cards splayed out in front of onlookers. "Everything here has been lovingly crafted in my own microbrewery, right here in town. I have it all: pilsners, IPAs, stouts, wheats—"

"What about those wines?" Though Hermione is able to enjoy a good (or even cheap) beer from time to time, she really is in the market for something sweeter…or stronger.

"I've those, as well, but I daresay, they are not from my brewery. I have liquors and mixers, too, but same deal as the wine. I can tell you're a woman who enjoys a bit of quality in everything she consumes," he offers a wink and she feels herself flush.

"I'd actually love a vodka tonic if you're able?" She offers him her own dazzling smile—the product of having worn braces for too many years.

"I am. It would be my pleasure." He's all teeth and laughter lines with her, glad he can give her what she wants, even if it isn't a beer that he is trying to advertise. "I apologize for my in-your-face marketing. Anyone who knows me will instantly tell you its really the only way I know how to be." His smile is sheepish, but not the least bit apologetic, and she finds it terribly endearing.

"That's fine. I'd just rather have something else tonight. Maybe I can check out what you're offering another time?" Her cheeks flame pink once she realizes this can be taken as her flirting with him, but it is not what she meant in the slightest way at all.

"I'd love that! Black's Brews." He grabs at a nearby coaster and writes its address down, as well as the names of its neighboring establishments so she could find it with ease. She examines the thin piece of cardboard: a silhouette of a black dog is in the background, howling at the moon. The name of the establishment is written over the logo in a simplistic and very readable, yet basic, calligraphy script—it looks almost handmade. She smiles at the creativity before tucking it in her back pocket, hoping to avoid crumbling or folding it in a crude manner.

"Black? I suppose that's you?" She can feel the eyes of other partygoers on her, and has become embarrassingly aware of just how long she's lingered here and worries that perhaps she's doing something wrong.

"Yes, that is I. Sirius. Sirius Black," he offers her his hand after he's made her drink with a perfectly shaped spherical ball of ice. Her brow frowns as she examines it with intrigue—she wants to ask how he's managed to craft this, but doesn't ask. "And you are?"

She takes his hand and he grips hers gently. "Hermione Granger. I'm new to the college."

"Masters student?"

"Doctoral candidate."

He looks taken aback as he jerks his head to the side when he relinquishes his grip on her glass. She sips at it. Its perfect. She doesn't jolt or gag from the overwhelming burn of bitterness that they usually give her.

"Really?" He asks, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "A bit young looking to be that far along in academia."

"I graduated undergrad early and never took a break in between." She takes another long sip from her drink.

"God, I thought my best mate was bad enough with his own studies. You've beaten his record, I reckon. Speaking of, he ought to be around here somewhere." Sirius cranes his neck to look around the throng of people that seems to have grown twice its size in the short amount of time that she's been here. He narrows his eyes at those who shoot him furtive and impatient glances as they stand off to the side, waiting to get in line, but not wanting to interrupt the person making drinks.

"He teaches up at the college," Sirius continues, pointing behind him with his thumb. " I'm sure if you don't meet him tonight, you will soon." Sirius offers her another smile and looks at her appraisingly, but in a very platonically fond way. Hermione returns the look, and with clear approval. She thinks they're sharing one of those seemingly rare moments where you know you like someone as soon as you meet them and would like to see them more often.

Before she has the chance to ask Sirius who his friend is, there is an assault of women lining up behind her to get drinks from her new acquaintance. Apparently, they have exercised all forms of patience they could muster, and wanted a chance to speak with Sirius.

'You're here to meet peers and colleagues,' she tells herself, and can't help but think of something either her mother or another teacher told her when she was small. 'Hermione, at some point, you have got to talk to and make friends with people your own age.' This was after spending lunches and even recesses speaking with teachers.

She frowns at the memory and decides to take that decade-plus advice into consideration tonight, so she bids Sirius farewell. "It was really nice to meet you."

"Hope to see you at the brewery some time," he rushes with his words as she's walking away. "Please do come by whenever you'd like to. I'm always there." His smile is sincere and he's dropped the obnoxious, shallow flirtatious tone for which she is glad. He seems like a really nice guy, and 'friendly' is definitely what she is looking for in new people around here.

"I will," she calls to him, a hand cupped to the side of her face to extend her voice as he becomes over run by a crowd of grad students loudly clamoring for free drinks. Most of them are the catty young women from before, each trying to cut in line.

She turns her back to the scene and scopes out the rest of the dining hall, wondering if it will be as easy to make friends with others here. The students look haughty, as though everyone is competing with one another to see who is the most brilliant and to see if the professors will prefer them over the others. There really is nothing like a good dose of healthy competition, but being antagonizing just for the sake of it isn't something that she's into and she hopes that relations aren't going to be as cutthroat as they seem.

"Hermione Granger!" Sirius is yelling at her and when she whips around to look at him, she sees he is waving both arms in the air as though he is stranded on a deserted island and is trying to flag a rogue aircraft down to rescue him. "Come to trivia night this Wednesday!"

"I will!" She will definitely have to check her schedule, and stop by his bar to see what time trivia actually starts. Perhaps her late evening class won't conflict with the time.

"I will, too!" Someone else whoops out somewhere in the line., wavering their voice in a very suggestive and annoying way, so as to make fun of she and Sirius.

"Not you, ya prat!" Sirius responds before going back to playing bartender. He will definitely water down this round.

Hermione grins to herself and goes back on the hunt to find some more company.

There is music playing, but she can't find the sound system set up, and she realizes that someone is actually playing on an acoustic guitar near the back of the room. They are playing instrumental music of popular songs, without the lyrics. She can appreciate that. Not many people are near the musician, so she avoids going that way. More people are standing in clusters near the dining table, utilizing it as a surface to set their drinks and small appetizer sized plates full of cheese upon. They already seem to be in rapt conversation and that they aren't really in a place to have someone randomly jump in and derail or disturb whatever they're talking about.

The groups in the dining hall seem familiar enough with one another that the little clusters seem more like cliques of sorts instead of strangers meeting for the first time. She thinks about the two old men she saw when she first arrived, but they seemed to have disappeared all together. Not only that, but she is trying to take past advice and do well with people closer to her age. She thinks of perhaps going back to speak to Sirius now that his line is dwindling down. Not only would that be pathetic, but he is also working at the moment, so it would most likely be inappropriate in some way. However, she could go back to get a second drink…

The lighting is dim in here, and its hard to avoid spilled drinks. Hermione finds herself nearly slipping on more than one occasion. Her face burns, but nobody seems to have noticed her. She throws the rest of her drink back in one gulp. Whatever Sirius had done to this drink to make it taste fine was nothing short of magic: she is feeling more buzzed than she usually does after just one. She feels loosened up enough to be so bold and talk to people now, but the question was: who ought she approach? Most people are townies who have always known one another, and it seems to Hermione that staying here long enough to get a degree was not only a rite of passage, but some kind of requirement. She thought it amusing, but also thought any extraneous learning ought to be done because one desire to and finds some pleasure in it.

She finds herself wandering towards the fireplace, and decides that's as good a place of any to just post up for a bit until people wander her way, when she slips again, and a strong hand grabs her by her upper arm to right her again.

"Whoopsies," a female voice says with a slightly shrill titter of laughter.

Hermione finds her balance again and turns to look at her rescuer: a tall, slender young woman with straight highlighted hair and eyes spaced almost a bit too far from another. She's wearing a breathtaking, if not provocative, tight off-the-shoulder black dress that stops several inches above her knees. Her heels are also black and dangerously high, and she has a diamond-studded clutch dangling from her free, dainty wrist.

"Thank you," Hermione says, giving her an apologetic grin. "I am quite accident-prone sometimes." She means this in a self-deprecating enough way to cause the woman to laugh along with her, to break the ice and put this awkward stumble and catch behind them.

"Grace is something that must always be practiced." The young woman gives her a mischievous grin and sizes Hermione up. "I'm Pansy Parkinson…and you're new."

It isn't a question, and Hermione isn't sure what inferences or analyses of her character that Pansy is leaving implied in her curt assessment. So Hermione just tells Pansy, "Yes," and offers her name, as well as her soon-to-be affiliation with the college.

"Ph.D. already?" Pansy doesn't try very hard to conceal her sneer. "I'm a masters candidate myself. Most people are age are. How freakishly ahead you are," she says this in a sweet tone, as though she means no offense, yet Hermione cannot help but feel shamed in some way.

Hermione, wanting to move beyond this, and Pansy herself at some point, asks her what she is studying.

"Oh, please." Pansy holds up a hand to stop Hermione in her tracks. "Everyone knows the real reason we all come to these things."

"And what is that?" Hermione frowns, and brings her nearly empty glass to her lips, drinking the dregs of melted ice because her mouth suddenly feels dry.

"To gossip, of course," Pansy is almost aghast as to how Hermione did not immediately pick up on this. "And to determine whose sleeping with who."

Hermione now knows that she doesn't care for Pansy Parkinson and she doesn't like the way her dark, beady eyes sear the room in search of her next target for ridicule. It is a cruel gaze (and game) and in her more formative years, perhaps teenage Hermione would jump at the chance to refine Pansy with lessons in kindness through an offer of friendship. But in truth, she'd always known people like Pansy and they seemed either born this way or loved to grow further demented.

"Daph, come here," Pansy says suddenly, waving her extended arm in a beckoning manner.

They are joined by a blonde young woman who is the mirror of Pansy, except she has lighter tones and is wearing a similar dress, but of emerald.

"Lucius just throws the best parties sometimes, doesn't he, Pans?" The woman is saying, sipping from her glass of champagne. "Pity the right crowd must always mix with the rest of them when that other lot decides to show up. I've always told Draco that he needs to speak some sense into his father and convince him to make these things more private."

"Daphne," Pansy says as though she hasn't heard a word of her friend's short tirade, "this is Hermione. She's coming to GHC this fall. She's a _doctoral candidate_."

Daphne raises an eyebrow and shares a snide look with Pansy as they raise their eyebrows at one another. Daphne coughs to hide a chuckle before reaching out a small hand to shake Hermione's and introduce herself. "Daphne Greengrass. I didn't know that Godric Hollow attracted such brainiacs."

"I—" Hermione started, but was interrupted by Pansy.

"Brainiacs who are friends with Sirius Black."

Daphne's eyes light up. "Are you really?"

Hermione now recognizes her as one of the girls who had shot her a gross look earlier when she was speaking with him. "I suppose, yes."

"Do you think you could mention me to him the next time you speak?"

But before Hermione can speak, Pansy interrupts her yet again and tugs Daphne close beside her to whisper loudly. "There he is!" She points a long-silver painted-nailed finger in the direction of the makeshift bar.

At first, Hermione thinks she is referring to Sirius, but realizes that she is pointing at the man standing off to the side, speaking to Sirius. He's wearing a light gray tweed jacket with sandy brown elbow patches over a white button-down shirt without a tie, and dark navy chino trousers that stop just above the ankle and show off loud yellow socks, and bone colored oxford shoes.

"He just always seems to wear the same things," Pansy says, that deviant look clouding her eyes once again, and Daphne mirrors it.

"Its almost as if he's only got a change of clothes for each day." Daphne giggles into her champagne flute.

It is as though Pansy cannot stop herself from saying horribly rude things. "And no one's _ever_ seen him with a woman or even a man."

Daphne is no better with how she reaffirms her friend's absurd claim that's come from nowhere. "I hear he's basically like a virginal spinster."

"I think he looks quite nice in those clothes," Hermione has no idea where this courage has come from. "Its not as if he just showed up in some tattered pajamas."

Daphne and Pansy share a look of vicious glee before looking at Hermione and then at the man speaking to Sirius. Hermione follows their gazes, and locks eyes with Sirius when he turns his head from the other man, still speaking. Sirius smiles kindly at her and waves. Hermione waves back. The man follows Sirius's eyes. He looks at Pansy and Daphne, then at Hermione and offers a small smile. He raises her own arm to wave, and a hole in his jacket's sleeve becomes apparent. Daphne nearly drops her glass when she and Pansy start shrieking with laughter and clutch at one another.

Hermione finally divorces herself from the situation, no longer wishing to be affiliated with them. She hears Sirius calls for her, but ignores him in search of a bathroom. She needs to cool her face off with some water before her fuming mortification burns it enough to cause tears.

With her empty glass in her hand for company, she walks the length of the dining hall staring at her feet, and peers down the adjacent corridor. The glass is cool in her hand as the ice cubes melt in the warmth of the manor. Droplets of the glass's sweat slicks her palm and chills her fingers—the slight uncomfortable feeling keeps her grounded in a way. The corridor is very long and now she's worried that someone is going to see her here, and ask her just what the hell she thinks she's doing nosing around like she owns the place.

She finds a bathroom at the very end of the corridor, and locks the door behind her when she closes it. She places her drinking glass on the edge of the sink, then wets a paper towel with cool water from the tap. She slides into a sitting positing with her back against the wall and holds the damp towel to her brow, cheeks, and closed eyes. She lets out a short, shaky sigh.

'What horrid girls,' she thinks to herself. Once she's sat here long enough, she tells her that she can either go back out there and try again with new people (hopefully they aren't all like that, and that she is able to avoid the 'right' crowd that Daphne previously mentioned), or she can call it a wash and just go home and get some reading done.

Home sounds more pleasurable than anymore of this stuffiness, she decides, and leaves the bathroom door open behind her to indicate that it is vacant.

The room across the bathroom has caught her fancy and she decides she will not leave until she has explored what appears to be a small, private library.

This is something out of her daydreams—something on the invisible list of things she hopes to have in her future life someday. But for now, all she has is many very cheaply made bookshelves all straining to hold her massive and impressive and ancient tomes until she is in a place to afford something like this: wall to wall built-in shelves and a ladder that swivels around to every wall, a spiral staircase to a second floor landing full of more shelves and books and furniture by beautiful windows. She can't help herself as she is pulled into the room by what she loves best. She heads straight to one of the shelves in the middle, tracing her finger along a line of spines, walking the length of the bookshelf, reading titles, until it stopped at the corner.

"Impressive, isn't it?" A voice to her left says softly. He is quiet, as though they are in an actual library.

Hermione starts as she turns to face the speaker. Of course she was lost in her thoughts in here (how couldn't she be?). It is the man from earlier. "I-I'm sorry, sir. I wasn't laughing at you with them, I promise. I'm also sorry to intrude, I didn't know if this was off limits."

The man closes the book he is holding onto his finger to hold his place in order to greet her. He's much taller than her and smiles down at her, amused by her sputtering panic. "Its all right. This isn't even my house. I don't know if I'm allowed in here, either." He pauses before adding, "I'm hiding, too."

"I'm not hiding from anyone." She sets her chin in defiance of what he's said to her.

He raises an eyebrow and gives her a crooked smile. "I see. You just got lost. Its very easy to miss a room full of people on your way to the most secluded area of the first floor."

She knows that he's just trying to be funny with her, but something about the way that this could be taken as him fully making fun of her like everyone else really hurts her feelings and she feels her eyes burning with the mist of impending tears, but doesn't quite tear up yet.

He sees that he's made a mistake and his amber eyes turn sad once more. "I apologize for my facetiousness. Please don't pay attention to any of them out there. Trust me. I've known most of them for a very long time—too long of a time—and its all the same every year. Tomorrow, they will act like they've no idea that they were so rude to you the night before. Most of the people who are worth speaking to are not here yet, went home already, or never planned on coming at all because they knew what everyone else is always playing at."

"Then why are you here?"

"I try to meet as many new students I can." His face breaks out into an amused and brilliant smile. "I daresay too many of them are distracted by my friend at the bar."

She sniffles and breaks out in the first grin he's seen from her. "Sirius? He's lovely."

"He's something all right."

They are quiet again for a spell and Hermione goes back to reading the spines of the books on the rest of the shelves, while he walks around aimlessly, his book too close to his face.

"I've been trying to find someone decent to speak to all night," she confesses, rubbing at her temples with closed eyes once she's finished perusing titles.

He plunges a hand in his already-messy hair, making it look like he just got out of bed. "Welcome to my year-long problem. Chronic, self-selected solitude." His pacing has brought himself back to her again, and they stand in the middle of the room.

She chuckles at his tone and asks him what he's reading.

"Just a bit of old poetry." He recites a few lines from the book, looking down at her every so often when pausing.

The music at the party in the other room grows louder, as it appears that more instruments have joined the foray. And now that a proper band has fallen into place, they launch into a cover of the song 'Wonderwall' immediately, inciting wild cheers and sing-shouting from the crowd. Hermione cannot help roll her eyes and the man enjoys this greatly, muttering something like, 'same'.

They move to one of the small tables in the corner and discuss Romanticism and the Byron-Shelley circle. Hermione gives an impassioned almost-lecture on the symbolism in 'Frankenstein' that she finds most compelling. He listens politely, nodding or shaking in his head in all the right places of her tirade. When she finishes, she is breathless, and beaming. "You're Sirius's friend that teaches at the college, aren't you?"

Her wild transition is jarring to him and he stumbles with his answer, caught off-guard by being asked a question so suddenly.

"Yes. I teach literature and theory. Er, I'm Remus. Or, Professor Lupin, I suppose." He offers her his hand, and he can't help but notice how small hers feels in his own. He also can't help but notice how her slight chuckle warms his chest when she says something sardonic about being glad to have finally met him after all this time (spent in the library). Sirius was totally right about how easy to talk to she is and how refreshing it is to be around someone so new and so nice.

"It is lovely to meet you, Professor Lupin. This is one of the best conversations I've had in a few days."

"I can say the same, Hermione. And if this conversation is indicative of, or only a fraction of what you are capable of, I am absolutely looking forward to working with you this semester. It isn't every day we have Ph.D. candidates as young or as brilliant as you."

"I'm afraid I have a lot to live up to now."

"You will be fine," he says briskly. "And I shall be there to help you when you aren't."


	2. Chapter 2

It is late when Hermione gets home from the cocktail party. She is exhausted from even the minimal interactions with the people there, and there's a slight sinking feeling of disappointment from not socializing as much as she could have (or should have). She feels as though she's failed her networking goals for the night, but quickly brushes it off. She did better than she could have hoped, especially when she met the impossible duo of Daphne and Pansy. They never told her what they would be studying at school and she hopes that she doesn't end up having class with either of them (or both).

She flicks every light on in her small apartment—something about staying in a new place, especially by herself, is spooky and she knows that she will sleep with all of the lights on at least for the first couple of nights until she is well used to the nuances and noises made in the middle of the night. She changes into a pair of cotton shorts and a hooded sweatshirt that probably belonged to somebody else at some point. She pads over to the desk that the landlord has furnished (along with other items, the internet, and a phone line) in each apartment in the building. More than anything, the apartment is like a dorm, but for older adults and students. Thankfully, the only things she had to bring with her were school supplies, books, and clothes, so moving in all by herself was as easy as possible.

She sits down at the desk and opens up her faithful Powerbook, waits for it to come on, and logs onto her Jabber account to see if anyone is in the online chat room at this time. She checks her saved users and notices that WeasleKing9 is not on at this time. She closes out of her account and goes to check her Outlook email to see if there's a sign of him contacting her there, and sure enough, she has one unread message sent about an hour ago.

'Just wanting 2 check up on u to see how ur settling in. We all miss u here even tho u haven't been gone long. Ginny sends her luv and so do i. Love, -Ron'

She has to stop herself from cringing at the way the email has been crafted. Ron Weasley, her long-term boyfriend, has never been an eloquent writer (and it is not something that she holds against him), but she doesn't quite understand how this strange shorthand has seemed to take over digital correspondence. She misses the days of hand-written letters, but can't dislike the convenience of technology and how quickly one can reach out to another. She just feels like something is lost when staring at something on a screen, and the awful short hand only makes it much worse, especially when it is a brief message as this. Why is it that much harder to write out short, simple words, anyway?

She thinks it sweet that Ron thought enough about her to check up on her—they didn't exactly leave each other on the best terms when she was outside packing her car to come here and he'd stormed off. It feels too late to give a call, especially with him living back home with his family. She doesn't wish to ring at this late of an hour and wake up anyone who may be working in the morning. She has to go to school in the morning, anyway, and needs to be turning in soon.

She types out a quick response, thanking Ron for thinking about her and sends her love to he and his sister, Ginny. She will compose a longer letter to each of them when she has time. If she gets home early enough tomorrow, she will even give them a call at a more appropriate hour.

She shuts the laptop down and wanders to the bed to lie down. She pulls the sweatshirt's hood over her head and draws the strings to help keep the lights out of her eyes and from disturbing her too much. She pulls her clean comforter up to her chin and grips at the soft fabric and she replays the evening's events in her mind, watching images like a VHS tape on fast-forward. Had she talked _too_ much to Professor Lupin? He seemed to not mind, and he told her he enjoyed meeting her. But, he seems like such a nice, mild-mannered man that she wonders what he must really think of her. Had he been totally annoyed with her and was just really good about hiding it? Perhaps not, though. She appreciated his candor and hopes to take his advice to heart with regards to what he told her about the others at the party.

Hermione has a bad habit of letting her thoughts run wild well into the middle of the night, and loses far too much sleep as a result of it. As great of a mind that she has, she is burdened with an anxiety that never seems too far away, particularly with just how profoundly she overanalyzes everything. But, tonight she is going to let herself rest, for tomorrow may bring troubles all on its own and she does not need to be more exhausted than necessary, particularly this early in the semester.

—

The trees on campus are still green, but it's hard to enjoy them against the gray sky. The beautiful blue and calmness of yesterday is lost to today's wind and the clammy autumn bursting its way through. Throngs of students mill about, backpacks slung over one shoulder only, a sea of baggy sweatshirts, and backwards ball caps on heads with too-long hair. Cardigans and blazers are on others with close cropped hair and expensive leather shoulder bags.

Hermione feels herself slip into a strange liminality of aesthetics regarding her attire: she feels as though she is somewhere between underdressed and overdressed, and hopes this middle ground is acceptable. Her wine-colored trousers are somewhat tightly fitting and stop above her ankles, her chambray shirt is not tucked in, and her off-white sweater fits a little loosely. She's tamed her hair in a loose, curly updo. She tucks a loose strand behind her ear and trudges along with everyone else.

Basically, it is hard to get lost on this campus, and she is able to quickly locate the Humanities building (across from the library), and heads straight for it. It's still early enough in the morning that those smart enough to avoid early morning classes aren't crowding halls. The first floor of the building is beautiful with soft gray walls and bookshelves with potted plants and succulents. The yellow glow of lamplight gives the floor a rustic feel of walking into a friend's home instead of heading to a classroom. She hopes the rest of the building is as comfortable and welcoming as this.

Hermione doesn't have class yet, but she does have to report to the English department and meet with the department's chair on the third floor. She eyeballs a rickety and untrustworthy elevator, not wishing to take a chance of getting trapped in it and opts for the staircases instead. When she makes it to the main office, she checks in with a platinum-haired student working the front desk.

"Yeah?" He drawls, flipping through a magazine spread out in front of him in a lazy flourish in between wetting his fingers with the tip of his tongue.

"Er, I'm to meet with Dr. McGonagall? I'm her 8:15 appointment."

"So you're the reason I've had to come in an hour early this morning." He looks up from his magazine and his gray eyes bore into her, his long, thin nose sniffing at her in a disapproving manner.

"I apologize. I suppose it is still quite early for the first day back?"

"You think?" He cocks his head to the side and glares at her.

"Anyway," she goes on as though he chose not to be even ruder to her. "Could you please let her know that I'm here?"

"I'll let her know you're ten minutes early. You can wait over there." He nods his head towards a corner without a chair to sit in.

Hermione is reminded of corners that misbehaving students are told to stand in when they act up in class in kindergarten. "Of course," she mumbles, rolling her eyes when she is no longer facing him.

"I saw that," he mutters as he pushes himself from his desk and heads to one of the shut doors in the back of the room. He knocks swiftly on the door and is let in, but the door shuts behind him.

Hermione spots a lone coffee pot on a folding table opposite her. She lets one of her arms out of her backpack's strap and zips it open to rummage for the spare mug she keeps with her at all times. She goes to pour a cup, but notices that the pot is bone dry. She searches the table and the area around it for coffee—perhaps she can go through the trouble of brewing a fresh pot in hope of it becoming a peace offering to the surly young man at the front desk and to anyone else coming into the office this early in the morning.

"You can go in now," the young man calls at her in a flat, bored voice. He perches himself upon his chair once more and flips through his magazine. He places an elbow on the counter and then rests his cheek resting in this free hand now curled into a fist.

"Which—"

He sighs heavily and whispers, " _Honestly_ ," before pointing behind him with his magazine hand.

Hermione follows the strange directions he's given the best she can, unzipped backpack dragged by one arm and empty coffee cup in the other hand. "Professor McGonagall?" She calls tentatively.

A sardonic and quiet, "Hardly," comes from a tall, very bat-like man clad in all black, standing in front of an extremely organized desk. He crosses his arms over his chest and when he looks into her eyes, she is sure that he is reading her mind, or is reading whatever runes and narratives have been etched into her very soul since she came into existence. "Professor McGonagall isn't in yet. She's late, traveling back from her research sabbatical, therefore, I have been tasked with your little orientation session." His eyes flick to her heavy bag. "You may sit that down if you wish," he drawls, not offering her a seat. His gaze shifts to the mug in her hand. "I do take it you've noticed that our coffee supply has been neglected. Our work-study students are tasked with keeping it full; however, Mr. Malfoy has failed to do this yet again. You shall see to it that it is resupplied by this afternoon."

"Why can't Malfoy—"

"He has class in the afternoon. And ought not the more advanced students set a prime example of responsibility to their inferiors?"

"He is not my inferior."

A snide chuckle escapes from the back of his throat and his black eyes shine with malice. "You are far ahead than anyone else your age in their studies at this institution. Insufferable know-it-alls such as yourself consider those behind them lacking and intellectually inferior."

Hermione seethes and thinks, 'Just because _you_ do…'

"One of the things you shall learn quite quickly is that you cannot play dumb with me. I have been instructing for many years and I have seen it all." He turns to McGonagall's desk and pries a piece of paper from a stack in the center. He thrusts it at her. "Here is your schedule, as well as the professors you will be assisting with research. They have you on rotation for the begging weeks of the semester. Do try to make yourself useful."

"Who are you?" Hermione asks as her eyes scan the list, hoping that he will not be on it.

"I am Professor Severus Snape. Chair of Humanities: Mythologies, Folk Lore, and the Occult Studies."

"You aren't on here." Though she does notice there are a handful of professors from the humanities on this list. It is her understanding that the humanities, English, and philosophy departments are lumped into one floor and cross list with one another, particularly for certain classes.

"Bully for you."

She looks at her class schedule. Yes, she has outdone herself in coursework: most graduate students take three classes a semester and most classes meet only once a week (running at least two to three hours in duration), but she has opted for four and her first one isn't until later in the afternoon.

Snape doesn't say anything else and Hermione gives the office a swift once over. It is far more welcoming than the man in front of her and she does hope that she can come back to visit Professor McGonagall when she returns. She is, after all, a leading mind when it comes to Animality Studies and how they are applied to literature (which is Hermione's Friday evening course). She smiles at the stuffed black tabby plush toy sitting in McGonagall's chair in the professor's absence. No doubt Snape hates it, which makes Hermione all the more gleeful over its presence.

Snape doesn't say anything to her as she mumbles a goodbye and exits the room. He all but slams the door behind her.

"A real sweetheart, that one," Malfoy drawls from his seat. He has now resorted to taking a pen to the magazine and where Hermione thinks he is working on a crossword puzzle, she squints her eye at the page to see that he's actually taking some sort of quiz.

"Yeah, is he always like that?"

"Of course. Couldn't imagine him any other way."

"You forgot to bring coffee in, so now I must go do that."

"Granger, if I had to leave to go get coffee beans, how would I know which Backstreet Boy is my soul mate?" He holds the magazine (one meant for teenagers called 'Seventeen') in both hands, arching a very serious eyebrow and shows her his progress as well as an amused (if not slightly evil) smirk.

She rolls her eyes. "Whatever. I'll be brining the coffee to you later, then."

"See you. If I'm not in class." He pushes his white-blonde hair out of his face and goes back to his quiz, groaning after he tallies up his score, "AJ is the _least_ stylish," before throwing the magazine in a nearby bin.

—

She gets word that the most convenient place to buy things in bulk is a locally owned grocery store in the small downtown area. The store also serves as the town's florist and houses the weekly farmer's market block party every Saturday. Her walk into town is leisurely as she takes in the shops all crammed into one another and notices that the town eerily has everything one could need: a pharmacy, bookstore, pet store, coffee shop, and others. All establishments are family run businesses and she doesn't see any kind of recognizable chain in sight.

There is a two-lane road that separates the downtown business district. All the shops are lined up next to one another and there are rows of trees planted down the length of the sidewalks. Near the trees are what she believed to be street lights, but upon closer inspection appear to be gas lit flames turned on once the sun has set for the day. Shops that have awnings or patios are beautifully decorated with floral hanging baskets, ferns, and strings of lights that must look magnificent once they are lit in the evenings.

Once she makes it towards the middle of the district, she notices that she is walking towards Sirius Black who looks a bit different from their first encounter. His hair is pulled back in a plait of sorts and is wearing a red, green, blue, and white checkered shirt with the sleeves sloppily rolled up. A red vest is zipped halfway, and his navy trousers are unkempt. He's wearing worn leather loafers without socks. His color combination is pleasing, but despite the fact that he's trying to look put together, it just makes him look all the more disheveled. He's carrying a long baguette wrapped in cellophane and struggles with ripping the tip of the wrapper open, using his teeth to free it.

"Hermione," he says this pleasantly once they meet, a smile lighting up in his eyes. He picks a stray strip of plastic from his mouth and drops it on the ground before wiping his now slobber-damp fingers on his vest. "What are _you_ ," he points at her with the tip of his baguette for emphasis, "doing here?" He nibbles at the bread almost thoughtfully while he waits for her to answer.

"I'm—What are you eating?" She scrunches up her face. Surely this isn't the most bizarre thing, but she's come to realize she shouldn't expect anything proper or conventional from Sirius Black. "Is that literally just a baguette and nothing else?"

"I drank too much last night," he explains, grinning at her sheepishly. "I feel quite delicate this morning." He touches his stomach lightly, frowning. "Need to carb up and all that. Although, this would go nicely with some smoked gouda or something." He takes a larger bite from the baguette's tip and she hears the bread crunch and watches hard crumbs fall from the bite and onto the front of his vest. He doesn't seem to notice. "So," his voice is mumbled as his teeth and tongue struggle to communicate over the food in his mouth, "what is our Miss Granger doing in our little downtown rather than soaking up invaluable and expensive educational information in a classroom at such an hour on a Monday morning?"

He falls into step beside her and follows her down the sidewalk, back into the direction that he came from. She doesn't mind the company. Songbirds are out, and the people they pass along look happy. Some are enjoying books outside, lounged in the coffee shop's outdoor furniture.

"Apparently one of the tenants to my research fellowship constitute the title of 'Glorified Errand Runner' for the department."

Sirius looks down at her as he takes another bite of his baguette, but not before offering her some of it, raising his eyebrows. "Do what now?"

"No, thank you," she holds her hand up in such a way to cease his proposition. "The staffroom is out of coffee. I'm to pick up," she squints at the short list she scribbled on her hand earlier in ink, "two massive tubs, one regular, one decaf. Preferably French roast."

"Who sent you on this errand?" More speaking around balls of bread in his mouth. He reminds her so much of Ron in this moment that she can't help but roll her eyes, particularly after years of begging the boy to eat like a human and not an animal.

"Professor Snape."

Sirius spits the bread out of his mouth and sputters, choking a bit. Hermione stops walking and give him a slightly scandalized look before patting him on the back. She isn't sure how this is supposed to help, but she's seen this done in films and it seemed to have worked out for the people in them. " _Snivellus_?" He blurts this out as he hunches over, palms pressed into his thighs, looking up at her with surprised lines etched into his forehead.

She looks at him incredulously. "Are you speaking English right now, Sirius?"

He waves his hand, stands, and indicates that he is okay and ushers her to resume their walk. He pitches the baguette of betrayal into a far off bin. When it lands inside, he skips backwards ahead of her a few paces, his arms thrown up victoriously into the air. "Please tell me you witnessed that miraculous brilliance."

Hermione's eyes widen in mortified astonishment as passersby give them scandalized looks for being so loud so early in the day and in public. "Oh, my God. I'm in the company of a teenager." She waves apologetically as they pass by the offended others.

Sirius barks out a laugh, wrapping his arms around his midsection before falling into step with her once more with a promise to behave. "My apologies, Hermione. Snape. God, I came up with him in school. Always the absolute worst, the greasy git. I suppose he has tenure now. Otherwise, I don't see how they keep him on the faculty up there."

"He doesn't seem very pleasant. Or happy. Although, I do understand that everyone can't always have a great day."

"Severus Snape's never had a good time," Sirius mutters, lifting a low-hanging branch from one of the trees planted next to the sidewalk and let her walk in front of him. "Well, here it is. I suppose it's' the market you were en route to." Sirius stops walking behind her and plunges his hands into his trouser pockets. "It doesn't look like much, but the Longbottoms do a great job keeping a proper stock of just about anything you need."

"Good to know. Thank you for walking with me, Sirius. You didn't have to." She gives him a small smile and she can tell that he recognizes that she is still annoyed at the task she's been given.

"My pleasure, kitten. I'm sure I'll see you around." He pulls the door open, gesturing for her to go inside, but a short and pale man bustles through the exit before she can enter.

The man squints at the early day's sunshine. He brushes some of his tousled black hair from his brow—the rest of it is shaved close to his scalp, in a purposefully messy undercut. His dark eyes narrow and then he glowers at Hermione's companion.

"Sirius." The man speaks barely above a mumble. He adjusts his black tie with one free hand in a pompous manner and he raises an expectant eyebrow.

Sirius rolls his eyes at the shorter man. "Hello, Regulus." Sirius is still holding the door open. Someone inside shouts about the air conditioning being wasted in this manner, but Sirius doesn't listen.

"New girlfriend?" The man called Regulus nods his head in Hermione's position, half inside and outside of the store. "Or plaything? Or whatever it is you call them these days?"

"New friend. Best mate. Platonic life partner." Sirius's sardonic remark makes Hermione snort and he wraps his arm around Hermione's shoulders and pulls her close to his side in a clumsy manner. The store's door barely misses clipping her foot as it slams shut. "Not that it's any of _your_ concern. Shouldn't you be off licking dear old Lucius's boot anyway?"

"Stopped by to get some supplies for the house." Regulus holds up his paper bag as evidence to his claim.

"You're still shacking up with him then, eh? What does his old lady think about that?" Sirius's gap slackens around Hermione and he drops his arm. Her shoulders feel much lighter with the absence of his weight leaned into her.

"Narcissa adores my company, particularly when _dear old Lucius_ is occupied with other engagements."

Sirius holds his hands up, palms facing Regulus and closes his eye; a queasy tremor passes across his features. "Please, I do _not_ wish to know. That is our cousin, Reg."

Regulus is now showing just how irritated he truly feels, his jaw clenching around his words. " _I know she is our cousin, Sirius. God._ " Regulus shakes his head, pressing his fingers to his brow. "She's glad to have some help around the manor."

Sirius rolls his eyes once more, so forcefully that Hermione believes he's hurt himself. "I'm sure she is. Anyway, Regulus, terrible to see you, as always. Thanks for going away."

"I'm off anyway," he scowls at the taller man, and then looks at Hermione. "Good luck with this one. Shove off while you still can. He tends to cling, then abandon." Regulus whistles to himself as he walks in the direction that Sirius and Hermione just came from.

"Who was that?" Hermione stares at Regulus's quickly retreating back.

"My little brother," Sirius grumbles.

"And he lives with the Malfoys? A grown man living with a random family?" There's no doubt now that these Malfoys are related to the one she met earlier in the morning and that Regulus indeed lives in the house she was just in last night.

"Yes, they are business partners on some side gig that Lucius now runs or something. Sometimes Lucius rents out parts of his place to people." Sirius waves this away as though it's the least interesting bit of information about his younger brother and one of the college's Board of Trustee members. "I've always assumed something more nefarious to be going on between the two. Or, that they're lovers or something." Sirius leans in close to Hermione and stage whispers, "I've this theory that Lucius and the wifey are swingers."

Hermione rolls her eyes greatly. "Oh, Sirius. While I would _love_ to stand here all day and listen to your probably incorrect assumptions about your brother and cousins' incestual escapades—and about everyone else in this town—I really must get on with getting coffee for, what did you call him? Snilius?"

Sirius smirks at her trying to use the terrible nickname that's stuck to Snape for the past two decades. "Snivellus." He gets the door for her again and watches her walk inside. "Tell Remus I said hello if you happen upon him today. And please don't tell him I called Snape Snivellus. Remus thinks he's too good to call people by their nicknames anymore, so it gets me in trouble with him now." Sirius gives her a bemused look with his eyes as though this is the most ridiculous thing that could ever happen to him.

"I will. And I'm absolutely going to tell him about Snivellus." She believes that Remus must be the one to keep Sirius in line and that after her encounter with Sirius today, he needs to be shouted at until he behaves again. She amuses herself with the thought that perhaps there's a reset button to restore his manners and only Remus Lupin knows how to reach said button. "Thanks again, Sirius. I'll see you later."

"Trivia Night. Wednesday. Don't forget." He points finger guns at her and smiles hopefully. "Winners don't have to pay their bar tab." He drags out the last words as though it's the most enticing thing in the world, leaning on the open door. Shouts from inside waver outward once more, begging whoever is messing about to please think of the air conditioning bill and shut the damn door.

She chuckles at Sirius, but wants to get rid of him so he doesn't drag her into any trouble with the shop's proprietor. "Okay, yeah. I'll see you then. What time?"

"Nine."

"I may be a little late."

"That's fine. Just be sure to say 'Hello, Sirius, this week has been incredibly boring without you' when you come in."

" _Goodbye_ , Sirius," she rolls her eyes and finally gets rid of him.

—

She is pouring water into the coffee pot when someone comes into the office with a quiet greeting, "There you are."

She finishes with the water and places the coffee pot onto its burner and sets it to brew. She wipes the stray ground coffee dust from her hand onto her trousers and turns to see Professor Lupin standing near her. He's dressed in olive green trousers that stop above the ankle, a very worn and light blue chambray shirt with gray tie, and a lived in heather gray cardigan buttoned in the middle. He's wearing the same bone colored oxford shoes as before, but is now wearing loud teal colored socks decorated with ice cream cones.

She points towards the floor and instead of greeting him says, "Do you always wear such interesting socks?"

"Always." He smiles at her. "Most people tend to stop noticing them after a while. I daresay, they are so normal to me that I don't even notice what I'm putting on anymore."

She smiles at that and asks him why he's been looking for her and he tells her that she needs to meet with him in his office, so she follows him down the hall and watches him unlock a room at the very end. The only other thing near them is an exit that leads to stairs leading up to the fourth floor or back towards the ground. He makes a joke about feeling so far away from everyone else, but glad that he's closest to the exit in case there's ever a fire. She doesn't know whether to laugh or not, so she doesn't do anything besides follow him inside.

His office isn't the same as McGonagall's. It is much smaller and the bookcases are so full to capacity that there are haphazard stacks everywhere else, even on the floor and in chairs. They look almost dangerous and she is careful when she comes inside.

"I apologize for the mess. I'd been so busy this summer and neglected to get in here any other time to spruce it up. I would tell you it will be much better the next time, but this is what it is like all of the time."

"How do you know where anything is?"

"I believe this is a madness that only I understand," he sighs and reaches into the shoulder bag hanging off the back of his chair. She expects him to bring out a book or something like that, but he instead produces a spray bottle filled with water. "The only things I take care of in here are my plants. They can never say I'm a terrible father to them," he mutters as he gestures to the small terrariums and hanging balls of glass filled with air plants scattered around the room.

"I take it that you were able to meet with Professor McGonagall this morning?" Professor Lupin flips the lid of the coffee pot turned terrarium on his desk and angles the spray bottle's nozzle inside, pulling the trigger to water the air plants and succulents inside. "She really is quite lovely. Very brilliant woman—one of the most brilliant _people_ I've ever had the fortune to know." He waters the rest of the plants and Hermione watches him go about it in a very gentle and meticulous way. "She taught _me_ when I was here, and I don't think there is a day that I don't follow some kind of advice that she gifted me once upon a time ago." When he's finished with the plants, he sits the bottle on top of a book stack. "You see? I am running out of surfaces to put things upon. It has come to this, Hermione. The abuse of books. What next?" He shakes his head.

"Just don't go rogue and start burning them. I'm afraid I'll never speak to you again."

He smiles at her playing along and gasps, a look of mock hurt on his face as he presses a hand to his chest. "I'm insulted you'd think I'd go that mad."

Hermione is glad that Professor Lupin is like this, especially after her encounter with Snape. She's glad to listen to what he has to say about McGonagall, as well. It only makes her even more excited at the prospect of meeting Minerva McGonagall in the future.

She is also beginning to adore the way that Professor Lupin speaks: with earnest, weaving such emotion into his quiet voice that she feels as though he would have no trouble finding a career in reading for an audiobook company. She imagines that he has the potential to make a take out menu sound very important, relaxing, and intriguing. She can't wait to hear him in lecture.

"I didn't get to meet her today," she tells him as she watches him rummaging for something else. She bites back a smart aleck remark of 'I thought you said you knew where everything is in here'.

He stops rummaging and then frowns at his plants at what she says. He removes his reading glasses when he looks at her. "Is she not back from her sabbatical yet? I thought she was supposed to return today."

"Yes, that's what Professor Snape said; I saw him today instead of her."

"Him? Oh, Severus? He's just the misanthrope who works down the hall in the Humanities. I'm sorry, Miss Granger." He offers her a sweet apologetic smile that crinkles the lines in his face in an endearing way. "If I'd gotten here earlier today, you could have met with me instead. Unfortunately," his hands go to his hair and they further dishevel it. It falls into an untidy place, the steaks of gray glinting in the office's bright lights. "It appears that Severus doesn't quite leave the building at all. Sometimes he even surpasses the custodial staff's arrival and waits on them to unlock the building to let him in. "

"I'm not so sure how I feel about him," she frowns, looking past the open door as if expecting him to sweep in at any moment. "I just feel sorry that I had to annoy him on the first day." She smiles in a self-deprecating way and speaks to the coffee pot terrarium. "And so early in the morning."

Remus nips at the side of his thumb and looks out as well, a crease on his brow. He brushes past her to shut his door and leans against it when he speaks to her again, crossing his arms over his chest. "A lot of people would agree with you, you know. He's done nothing to make himself look good to any of us, even people in his own department. I don't want to say that he ought to be embarrassed or ought to try harder, but I think he hardly has the right to lash out the way he does and give everyone a hard time for absolutely no reason. Especially newer people." He looks at her, tilting his head to the side and some of his hair falls out of place. "You have nothing to be sorry for and I hope you didn't apologize to him."

Hermione bites her lower lip and grimaces. "I got the coffee that I heard he likes the best. Hopefully that's truce enough."

"I don't think Severus has ever been pleased with something in his entire life." Lupin speaks to the ceiling and looks back at her with a crooked smile. "I apologize that he happened to be on a delicate warpath this morning."

"Sirius said something similar like that to me. Something about Professor Snape never having a good day or a good time or something. Only…" Hermione's smile is mischievous and brightens her eyes as she looks up at Lupin who looks at her expectantly and with an amused smile of his own.

"Only what?" He rests his elbow on the arm still curled into his chest, and presses the tips of his fingers to his lips, smiling behind them, wanting in on the joke.

Hermione shakes her head and chuckles.

"No," he waves at her, encouraging her to speak. His face lights up as he walks over to his desk to sit on the edge of it. "Go on, please."

"Only he called him Snivellus, the greasy git, and practically begged me to not tell you that."

Professor Lupin rolls his eyes, so like Sirius, and mutters, "Good grief, that man."

"He said he knew Professor Snape in school."

"Yes, we were all there together. And Sirius and our other friend, James, have _never_ let go of their on-going, absurd schoolyard feud. If you are going to be friends with Sirius, I should let you know that there will be times that he will try his damnedest to suck you into these antics." He narrows his eyes to analyze her. "And I hope that your rational intelligence will keep you out of it, as Severus is now partly your colleague, though you will probably not work with him as much as you shall with the rest of us."

"I'll know when to stay out of it," she promises him and he responds with a positive clap of his hands as if to say 'that is that'.

"Good girl." He hops off of his desk and stretches with his hands splayed against the small of his back and walks over to his chair. "Come closer, please." He rummages in the top desk drawer and scoots closer to the surface. Hermione drags the chair over to sit opposite him.

He lays out a sheet of paper and spins it with his fingertips to where he is looking at it upside down so that she may read it properly. She skims it while he dons his reading glasses once again.

"This is for one of my undergraduate courses."

She looks up at him and notices his amber eyes have a slight golden-hazel ring around the irises. She can only image how they must blaze when he's really angry and wonders if Sirius has experienced said gaze before.

He grabs a ballpoint pen and uses it as a stylus to point out what he's talking about. "It meets every Tuesday and Thursday," the pen points at the general information at the top, "and runs from ten to quarter past eleven in the morning. Always downstairs. These are their books, as you can read for yourself. We are only doing three this semester so we can dig into them in a substantial manner." He wets the tip of his thumb and forefinger before he flips through the next few pages, muttering about the policies, assignments, and grading scales are there, and stops at the semester's schedules. "I am unable to make it here," he indicates with the pen a Tuesday and Thursday in early December, in between the fall break and end of the semester. "There is a conference out of town that most of this department usually presents at and some of my research has been accepted, so I will be away."

"So you need me to sub for you on those days?" It is the only reason as to why he would be showing her this, but she is now regretting taking on an extra course this semester. If she must help him teach sometimes, she must then read and be familiar with the books on the list (of which she's only read one), and with that extra class, she may not have the time.

"Oh," he looks up and chuckles at her question and at her nibbling her bottom lip. "No, Miss Granger. I'm showing you these dates so you may mark them down on your calendar. You're to come with me those dates. I'm the only English professor who submitted work for it this year, and McGonagall believes it will be a great experience for you to witness the world of professional presentations. One of the things you'll be doing up until we leave for it is help me with revisions and research, getting it ready for publication."

"I've never done anything like this before, professor. Aren't you worried that someone so amateurish as I will make too many mistakes?"

"I have complete confidence in you. I've read your writing samples once admissions sent them along to whoever else wished to read." He frowns at her and pulls the syllabus back to himself as he leans back in his chair. "If you don't want to go, that's fine…it's just that this practical on-the-ground kind of stuff is included with your fellowship. Next year, you will be required to have written something to submit yourself. Its all in the cycle of how we maintain funding for the department and to aid students in purchasing books for class."

"No, I would love to go, I'm just worried that—"

"I won't let you fail, Miss Granger." The small smile he gives her is very similar to the one he gave her back in the Malfoy's library and puts her at ease.

She returns an easy smile. "Okay, may I see the dates again?"

"Of course."

She reaches for the syllabus as he is sliding it back to her and their fingers brush lightly at the center of his desk before she busies herself with digging for the planner hidden somewhere deep within her backpack.

He watches her open the planner and flip to December and gazes at her jotting out notes, "You have beautiful penmanship."

"Thank you."

"Trust me; it is something people around here shall be grateful for."

She beams at him after she closes her planner and slips it back into her bag.

He leans forward on his desk, his cheek resting against his fist. "Tell me, what else was Sirius getting into when you met him?"

"He's hungover today." She tells him about the baguette and Lupin shakes his head and sighs, obviously experiencing second hand embarrassment.

"Yes, after you left the party last night, he started drinking whatever beer was left over. _He_ claims it was so the kegs would be easier to carry out. Rubbish." He chuckles.

"He also reminded me about trivia night. Yet again."

"Oh, if you run into him anytime before then, I guarantee he shall bring it up once more. I never go to those damn things. They don't usually end well, or Sirius ends up turning himself into a spectacle." He chews at his bottom lip. "I have to admit, sometimes it is entirely too entertaining. Unprofessional. But. Everyone likes a good show, I guess."

"I'm thinking about going. I quite like trivia, but it starts before my class that evening lets out. I'm sure it's the one that you're instructing."

"Mm," he hums. "Yes, it is. Well, if you're going, I suppose I could walk over with you if you don't mind the company. I'm sure James will be there, as well. He's going through a bit of a hard time," he seems to be speaking to himself at this point. "And it would be good to have a buffer there in between he and Sirius before Sirius dares James to do something stupid."

Hermione knows it's not her place to ask what's happening with her professor's friend, so she doesn't say anything. Instead, she tells him that she's looking forward to his class and that she must leave soon or she'll be late for her first (and only) one of the day.

"Don't forget. You're reporting to me in the morning, Miss Granger," his tone is more curt, professional, and so…teacher-like. "Let us say nine? That's an hour before my first class."

"I will be here then."

"Thank you. Please close the door on your way out."

She does.


	3. Chapter 3

**THANKS:** Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, followed, or favorite this story. It means a lot. I hope that it continues to be at least a bit entertaining.

 **Disclaimer:** As always, the source material belongs to J. K. Rowling. Am merely borrowing characters. Making no money.

 **Author's Note:**

I suppose some characters may seem OOC; I apologize if it's too cringe-worthy.

I also want you to know that this chapter is in no way meant to be Ron or Tonks bashing. (I never understood why Hermione and Remus got paired with them in canon). I'm using these relationships as an exercise to show how long term and long distance relationships change and how they may not work out. I'm also showing how hard long term relations can be when it becomes clear that you and your partner want very different things and are unwilling or unable to compromise. I don't mean to portray these relationships as the _only _way long term and long distance relationships are; I understand they're always different. I mean no offense in these portrayals.

CHAPTER III

Her afternoon class let out a little bit before six. Hermione realizes she'd done that thing where she forgot to eat at all: she'd skipped lunch, filling up only on tea and coffee, and her stomach grumbles at her for neglecting it. She's looking forward to heading back to the Longbottoms' store and bringing home something quick and easy to make before jumping into her massive reading assignments.

The early evening is already chilly and she relishes the breeze that tickles her neck and tingles her spine. She loves the cold and the comfort of the things that keep her warm: oversized sweaters, more coffee and tea, thick socks—

And then her thoughts are interrupted. "Granger, hey Granger!"

Hermione feels like most of her time is spent whipping around to look at people calling after her. Indeed, someone is heading towards her: the platinum blonde guy who works the front desk of the inter-departmental office. There's another magazine tucked under his arm, and he holds his shoulder bag's strap in his free hand as he jogs to catch up to her.

The sun will be setting into the evening sky soon, and when Malfoy falls into step beside her, he cups a hand over her brow into the last glares of the daylight.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" She hitches her backpack tighter upon her shoulder and sips at the cold tea in her mug, looking at him over the top of it. He towers over her, almost lanky, yet he holds himself with an aristocratic and almost austere posture and air. "Shouldn't you be off flipping through a silly magazine?"

He completely ignores her question gives her a look, one of longing to hear some sort of delicious gossip. "What were you doing in Professor Lupin's office with the door closed?"

Her eyebrows knit together as she calculates what he's trying to insinuate. "It's none of your business." She's already been called an insufferable know-it-all once today—she doesn't wish to be called one again if she tells Malfoy about her conference project goals.

"If you're going to be a bitch about it, then nevermind." He shrugs and lets go of his bag's strap to open the J-14 magazine previously tucked under his arm. His fingers make a squelching sound as they pinch at and shuffle through the glossy pages.

"Fine," she quips with a short shrug that he narrows his eyes at before going back to his reading material.

She wonders why she can't be like the other students leaving campus: those walking alone in solitude, or enjoying their own company while listening to their CD players, or laughing easily with a friend. No, she is stuck with petulant Draco Malfoy. It makes her a little angry that she can't help but find his crassness interesting, not to mention his affinity for magazines meant for preteen and teenage girls.

They keep walking together, and Draco is seething while he sneers at the magazine, his eyes unmoving when he arrives at the horoscopes. Apparently he cannot stand being treated as an afterthought, especially when he knows something that someone else doesn't know. Particularly when it comes to something that could be potentially infuriating to the other party (which is what most of his information constitutes, obviously).

He closes the magazine and shoves it under his arm once more before going on, "I just thought I'd let you know that the department has an open door policy. And you should know that nobody in this town has anything better to do than talk. You're new, so you're obviously a walking target."

"Why are you trying to help me out?" She narrows her eyes with great suspicion and still doesn't understand what he's trying to imply about her.

"I've been tired of all the bullshit lately," he looks ahead of their trek, dropping his hands into his pockets. "My father attracts so much of it and I'm sick of he and his friends, and I'm sick of it always coming back to me somehow in the form of whispers and question-asking. But if you're up to something entertaining, please don't stop it on the account of my friendly head's up. It does get ever so boring here most times. Especially once it starts getting cold. Everyone is concerned with who everyone else is warming themselves up with."

Hermione stops walking and so does he. He grins at her flushed face and then the filthy look she shoots him once she replies. "And you think I'm planning on doing that with Professor Lupin." She shakes her head and starts walking again and he follows her.

"Don't be coy. You looked all too happy to be leaving his office earlier."

She doesn't even know how he somehow managed to catch a glimpse her leaving Lupin's office. She hadn't seen anyone on her way out. Perhaps Draco Malfoy has a talent of getting away with a lot of things, unseen.

"He's been here for ages," Draco continues, pressing his thumb into the crosswalk sign button and they wait for the orange flashing hand to shift into a walking man. When it changes, he takes a long step to catch up to her quick scurrying escape. He falls back into stride with her and walks with a lithe, easy pace. She feels her shoulders tense and hunch in annoyance and doesn't bother to look at him as he rambles on. "And nobody knows anything about him. I don't know how he's managed to do that, being mates with Sirius Black of all people."

Hermione can only imagine what everyone says about Professor Lupin—she recalls the terrible things Pansy and Daphne said about him at the cocktail party, and that was only based upon his appearance and rumors that probably weren't even true. As far as Hermione is concerned, Malfoy seems to be cut from the same cloth as those two. She's not sure what he means about Sirius. Obviously, Sirius _does_ like to talk…but surely he doesn't go around spilling the beans on his friends and especially to other people.

Malfoy looks at his immaculate nails lazily and smiles down at them before flashing her a slightly appraising look. He knows he's gotten to her and he couldn't be more gleeful. "Congratulations, you've made Lupin far more interesting…as well as yourself."

"Sorry to disappoint you, Malfoy. But, I've been boring my entire life and I see no reason to stop it now." She stops walking once they reach the market.

Malfoy walks a few paces in front of her, closer to the post office, and she thinks he's going to leave her alone before saying without turning around, "Boring or not, you will have a wider audience than you believe. Just be careful."

She doesn't watch him leave. She goes inside.

—

After dropping her paper bags full of groceries onto the minuscule counter in her kitchenette when she gets home, Hermione calls the Weasley house.

She twirls the phone cord between her fingers as she listens to the rings and crackling static symbolic of the distance between callers. She almost gives up and tucks the receiver back into its cradle when the connection clicks and someone answers.

"Weasleys. May I ask who is calling?"

"Hello, Mr. Weasley. It's Hermione. I just wondered if Ron is in right now?" She finds the fingers on her free hand flying towards the cord and immediately entwine themselves into it out of a nervous habit. She hates talking on the phone. She tends to be a pacer and she wishes this line was on a cordless so she could all but walk a hole into the floor to soothe herself.

"Hello, Hermione!" She can hear the smile in his voice, which makes her feel more relaxed. "It's nice to hear from you. Yes, we just finished up dinner and Ron is having a drink outside with some coworkers he invited over. Let me get him."

"Oh, I don't want to interrupt anything, especially if he has plans this evening! Just tell him I'll call back later."

"Nonsense. I'm sure he can make time to speak to his special lady."

Special lady. God, Arthur Weasley sounds so much like a _dad_ at all times.

There's a clambering sound as Mr. Weasley sits the receiver down on the side table next to where they keep the phoneset holstered on the wall near their kitchen.

Hermione has asked Ron before why he still lives with his family, and the answer is always different: they're very tight-knit; he's not ready to leave that behind. He likes to give them some money from his paycheck after they had spent most of their lives taking care of he and his siblings. Ginny, his little sister, told Hermione she's sure Ron (and some of the other boys) haven't moved out yet because they love how their mother continues to cook, clean, and do their laundry for them.

The thought has always greatly annoyed Hermione, but she reminds herself that not all twenty-something young men (and women, for that matter) are spectacular at taking care of themselves and their own space. She just gets this nagging, dragging thought from time to time that he would expect his domestic partner and future spouse to do the exact same for him, and that he would never have to worry about such mundane things again. Hermione definitely does not plan on being that person. And if they ever get that far into their relationship (she's sure they will, they've been together five years now), she would have to set the record straight with him. She also has the sneaking suspicion that his mother is only very kind to her because she is the potential vessel for future Weasley grandchildren. Sometimes, Hermione's anxious and logical mind forces such pessimistic thoughts…

"'Mione?" Ron picks up the phone and it rustles around as he situates it comfortably. His mouth also sounds full, like he's chewing on an apple or something.

She can see him in her mind: tall and leaning against the wall; freckly and sunburnt; his red hair almost too long; the phone's receiver resting in the crook of his neck and against his ear; he's still dressed in soccer gear (a big COACH printed on the back of his jersey shirt); cleats tracking mud all over Mrs. Weasley's hard-scrubbed floors.

"Hey, Ron," she smiles and hopes he can hear it in her voice. "I just got home from class and from doing a bit of shopping. Er, grocery. Nothing extravagant."

He hums in response and takes a bite of whatever he's eating and says around the food in his mouth, "I just got off work about an hour ago. Dean and Lavender are here, as well. We're just having some drinks out back now. Miss you. We all wish you were here to join us."

"That sounds nice." She doesn't know what else to say. Most late afternoons are evenings were spent in the Weasley's back yard with Ron and friends and beer and sometimes liquor and whiskey burned kisses. "It'll be too cold before long and you won't be able to sit outside like that anymore." She rolls her eyes before slamming them shut in embarrassment. Is she really talking about the weather right now?

Ron grunts in response to this and only answers her when she asks him how work is going. Ron coaches the children's soccer teams at the local community center.

"Blimey. It was nuts, Hermione. Gage and Tristan got into a fist fight on the pitch again—eight-year-olds!" She can hear him shaking his head at that. "I told their parents that someone's just going to have to switch to another team at another center. I can't keep playing referee to make sure they don't kick each other's heads off. Honestly." She can see him rolling his eyes at this. "They've both a great deal of talent, and I know the team will suffer if they leave. The next best player is Kieran, and let's be real. When has he _ever_ gotten his head in the game?"

She isn't listening as closely as she could be and he can tell because she hasn't responded with her usual 'hm' and 'yes' and 'no's' like she does at all the right places.

"You okay?" He finally asks, and this time without food in his mouth.

"I'm fine, Ron. It was just a long first day." She launches into a story about Snape and Malfoy and Sirius and the store and her first linguistics class with Professor Flitwick. When she finishes, she feels like she's talked for too long and that he's probably asleep.

He only harrumphs when she is finished and offers, "Those Snake and Malthoy blokes sound like right pricks." She doesn't bother correcting him on their names. She was probably speaking so quickly that he couldn't catch them. She isn't prepared for his transition in the conversation, though. "I still can't believe you're in a doctoral program and that you moved away." She thinks he means this in a marveling way, however, his voice is curt and laced with disappointment. "You told me after your Master's degree that you were going to stop, 'Mione."

She cringes at the nickname she never cared for at all. It was fine when Viktor, a foreign exchange student she'd befriended and dated for an entire school year, did it. It was understandable that he just couldn't say her name properly as a result of an accent barrier that commanded his tongue. But she always hated it when her closest friends and boyfriend called her this, 'Mione, particularly after she'd asked them several times to call her by her true name. "Ronald," she uses his full name because she knows his irks him sometimes, "you say that like I'm addicted to drugs or am an alcoholic. Like further pursing my education is some kind of disruptive problem, derailing my life and the lives around me. I don't think it's very fair at all that you should be upset about my successes and opportunities."

"I don't see what's so successful about constantly being in school without break. It's not that any of your degrees have gotten you a career yet. And in this economy, you'll probably be hard up for work after graduating. Then what, 'Mione? You'll have a Ph.D. degree, and there will be no more school for you to go to. You'll have to come home, and then we can finally start our family. It's just…" He sighs heavily, as though he can't bring himself to go on with the next part. But she doesn't see the point in him censoring himself now. He's already said a lot. He finally admits, "I can't wait until you get this schooling out of your system, is all. It's very inconvenient."

Hermione almost says something about perhaps moving back home after this academic year. They could get a place together. Hopefully she could be permitted to work on and complete her dissertation remotely, if she stayed in contact with the college digitally, but decided against saying any of this. In this moment, she is sure that Ron would not offer to give up his job and move to where she is.

What she finally does tells him is, "I just hoped that you'd eventually be proud of me…for everything that I've accomplished and continue to do."

"I don't see the point in it. By the time you finish this program, you're going to be really old to have kids. What if something happens to them when you're pregnant? Also, it'll be like you went to school for nothing. A mother with a Ph.D."

"You _know_ that I never agreed to have children with you as soon as I graduated from here," she furrows her brow. "We've never agreed on children…" This really isn't how she wants their first lengthy conversation to go. Earlier, she'd just hoped they could have talked about something nostalgic and comforting, full of promises when they would be able to see each other again.

Her fingers slip out of the cord they have been entangled in and she sits cross-legged on her bed in the middle of the room, next to the phone. She glances at her bag of groceries longingly. She really should have eaten before she decided to call him. She is starting to feel nauseated from the direction this conversation is going in and is worried she won't have much of an appetite after it's over with.

"I know," he says, almost jerkily and she surprises herself when she flinches at his tone. "I just thought….I don't know, 'Mione. I see these kids I work with every day, even on _weekends_ ," he says this part derisively, as though trying to insinuate she's never worked a day in her life on a weekend. "And I hate how one day I might not have a chance to, I dunno, raise a little team of my own."

A little team?

"One child is scary enough to think about, let alone half a dozen, Ron! I've never wanted to start a family out of wedlock, either." She almost adds, 'And I don't see you buying me any kind of ring any time soon.'

"Why do we _always_ have to fight over this?!" He huffs this out in a near demand. "Personally, I think it's selfish that you keep running away from home just to go to school. It's like you're trying to avoid our lives as adults." There's a strangled desperation that dies in the back of his throat, but she does notice it and it's hard for her to feel bad for him.

She feels like he's never been able to understand her and the things that she actually wants and that he's just always let life happen and other people's decisions and actions happen around him. And that his living is done in the moments that he passive-aggressively reacts to the things happening around him. She wants to tell him how he's always seemed to have reacted to things passively and she never found this as an admirable way of living.

But this isn't true, and she knows it.

…Right?

Sure. She's just in one of those moods where she's upset with him and is therefore dwelling on all the things she doesn't like about him in the moment. One of the things she'd always loved about him was his bravery and the action that he takes to solve problems that exhaust her. She only wished he could learn how to apply this to their disagreements and fights—for a couple that has been together for so long, they really do struggle with communicating with one another.

"I'm not avoiding anything," she finally shoots back after what seems far too long. "And I'm not avoiding you."

"I never said you're avoiding _me_." He has a new lightness to his voice. "I'm sorry if I made you think that."

They don't say anything for a while and Hermione considers hanging up on him, just to get rid of him.

"I was thinking of coming to visit you soon," he sounds almost abrupt in this silence.

"What?" She blurts out, but then recovers. "I _just_ moved up here. Don't spend the money on travel to come here so soon, if you really don't want to."

"What are you talking about? I'm going to come and see you for your birthday. What, are you afraid of me randomly visiting you?" He forces a laugh, but she does not hear any mirth in it at all and she knows she will not believe him if he tries to claim that he is joking about what he says next, "Are you hiding something from me already?"

It's no secret that Hermione is a mysterious young woman to other people. Individuals who tend to live inside their own heads and inside of books and their own writing tend to be just so and are an anomaly to their more extroverted and energetic counterparts.

But that doesn't mean she's hiding something (let alone someone) from him.

"No!" She hates the way she sounds so indignant and defensive, which is absolutely how a liar would sound in this moment—she is sure Ron is thinking this right now. But she hopes her indignation presents as outrage towards him that he would ever actually think something like that about her.

He hums again. "I believe you." But he's offhanded sounding again and she doesn't believe what he says to her.

And for the first time ever in their relationship, she doesn't care. She doesn't care what he secretly thinks about her and she doesn't care what he has to say to her. She's tired, she's hungry. She'd looked forward to this phone call and now it's turned into something else that has exhausted her today.

They say their 'goodbyes' and 'I love you's', but there is a tense hollowness and she can tell that they are both still angry at and unhappy with the other when they hang up the call.

She checks her dainty wristwatch. It's later, but also early enough that the shops downtown will still be open. Even though she just spent money on groceries and ought to cook, she doesn't feel like it and she doesn't feel like staying in this tiny space full of annoyed feelings and bad vibes—all residue of her phone conversation with Ron.

Yes, heading out sounds good. This was a long and stressful day and she deserves to treat herself.

—

Remus's steps are purposefully heavy as he walks out of the building and towards the edge of campus on his way home. He knows the scowl he's wearing is for the ages and he feels bad for anyone to come across him and fall on the opposite side of his gaze.

He'd gone back to his office after his evening graduate class ended, to get the rest of his belongings on his way home and found a note in the basket on his closed door. It was a generic departmental memo (that he knows has been passive-aggressively drafted specifically for him) saying, "All faculty members must kindly remember to leave all office doors open anytime a student is in said office. This is to ensure all potential liabilities are non-existent, or minute enough to deal with. This is the first and last warning of the year." Needless to say, he's in a bad mood and he's sure it will last the rest of the evening.

He's already exasperated when he gets home. The clutter is just as devastating as that found in his office. He shares a two bedroom apartment with his fiancé, Nymphadora Tonks, and both are rarely home enough to keep it tidy. He's always locked away at the library reading or writing or out wrangling his friends (he doesn't quite get into as much trouble with them as he used to). The apartment he shares with his lover—Tonks, as she prefers to be called, though he does not like calling her by her surname; it just doesn't feel very intimate—is always in a state of crisis and disarray. He likes to think that these clusters of cluttered clothes and dishes and knickknacks attribute to the discontent he feels at all times in his head. But, perhaps that is reaching.

The sitting room is the only space ever to retain any slight organization, just in case visitors happen by. They own mismatched furniture that's been housed by various previous owners. Three small side tables find space in between the seats, and a coffee table in between the couch and ancient television set only holds stacks of old papers, bills, and empty beer cans and bottles.

He's moved all of his plants to his office, so there's nothing welcoming or artsy in the apartment and that's probably why there's a slight depression that creeps into his chest anytime he comes home. There's nothing to look at besides the mess around him. Tonks, or Dora as he tries to call her, is able to ignore the mess. She turns the telly on and enjoys that in the few free hours she has in between getting off work (she works for the sheriff's office as a junior deputy) and going to sleep.

Instead of working on lesson plans or working through assigned readings (so that he will be fresh for classes), he throws himself into cleaning the coffee table, spraying it down with some kind of bleached liquid and scrubbing profusely after sweating through finding spaces to cram the junk previously on top of the ring-stained and cracker crumble messes. It's always been easy to shut down and avoid actual problems and time itself when working on physical things like this. So much so that he doesn't notice her when she comes home to him.

"How was your first day of classes?" She asks, throwing herself down on the couch. She kicks her boots off and sits with socked feet upon the coffee table that Remus just spent the last while decluttering and cleaning. And though this annoys him far more than it should, he doesn't say anything to her. She always gets so testy whenever he brings up things around the house.

"Fine, thanks." He notices how tight-lipped his response is so he forces a smile to sound less horrendous. She doesn't need to suffer his foul mood after a long day at work. "I only had the one, you know. The grad students."

"Oh, right," she says this absentmindedly and searches between the couch cushions for the television remote.

Remus moves to an armchair and sits in it longways with his legs flung over an armrest, shoes and all still on. He pulls his reading glasses from his shirt pocket and pushes them up the bridge of his nose. He dips his hand into his greying brown hair, pressing it away from his brow to read the massive tome resting on his lap. He pulls the book up to his chest, his nose almost pressed into his, a pen in his hand, underlining excerpts and scribbling notes in the margins.

Tonks watches him more than she is the television, which is on a news station discussing the Y2K scare. It's talking about the Americans and how most of them will be spending New Years Eve at work, preparing for the worst instead of partying or out at Time Square. It speaks of the police officers out on high alert. Remus grits his teeth at the words he's hearing from the TV and pulls his book closer still, trying to ignore the millennial bug mania.

Tonks feet drop to the dusty floor as she turns the TV's volume up and presses her elbows into her thighs as she leans forward, watching the screen with rapt attention. "Oh, my God. They're making a million plus pizzas, Remus. They all have to work. No one can cook that night."

Remus doesn't see how this is noteworthy. He doesn't say anything, but his mind won't let his annoyance go. Everyone's getting up in arms for something that isn't going to happen. He sees no reason in worrying about something so improbable. If they prepared for the end of the world every time it was predicted, they'd never get anything done except a ton of needless worrying.

Tonks is frowning at hime, clearly not liking him ignoring her at all. "It's going to be a digital meltdown, Remus. You need to relax and start having fun instead of worrying about work." She waves her hand at him to get his attention away from the book and only frowns when he looks at her, whipping his glasses off. "What if these next few months are the last months of your life? How will you feel knowing that you're going to spend literally the rest of your life working or with your nose in a book?"

"Nymphadora," he sees her tense with annoyance, but doesn't care. He's irate, too. "This is _not_ the apocalypse."

"You still need to lighten up. There's always that hint of 'what if', you know."

"Then why can't you tolerate the 'what if' in relation to it not happening? I cannot put my life's work and passion on hold just because of something that probably is not going to happen at all. I am not going to risk my future and the work I do now just to throw it all away and lock myself in our house and sit and wait by the window for explosions and meteors to come wipe us all out. I'm sorry that I cannot entertain this for you."

She doesn't say anything for a long time. So long that he actually goes back to reading. She pulls her legs upon the couch and crosses them, plucking at some fuzz on her sock. She finally says, "You think I'm stupid for believing in this."

He is so quiet that she almost doesn't hear his response. "I never said that."

"No, but that's your problem, isn't it? You've always thought yourself far more clever than anyone else. Well, Remus, sometimes things cannot be explained and we must lean on our faith to carry us through these vastly difficult times."

 _Faith_.

"Dora," he says this and it sounds like a plead. He closes his textbook. "I don't think you're stupid. But I don't see how the times we are living through are any harder than they have ever been before. The thing that will destroy us is this mass hysteria that the media is hellbent on perpetuating. I refuse to be scared of something that may or may not happen. I could die tonight in my sleep. I could be struck by a car while crossing the street tomorrow. Just from _those_ uncertainties, I may as well lock myself in a room for the rest of my life. The worry is not worth it. Please spend your time doing something you genuinely enjoy instead of worrying. I don't want you to worry."

She looks at him for a minute. She doesn't tell him that she thinks he's right and that isn't what he wants at all, but she mumbles something about how she can maybe understand where he's coming from.

He offers her a small smile as his fingertips caress the book's cover. "Just because a lot of people believe in something doesn't make it true."

She doesn't return his smile. "Just because a lot of people believe in something doesn't mean it's stupid."

He does not wish to spend what few hours of free time he has begging her to believe him when he says he doesn't believe she's stupid. He hates this absurd Y2K scare and what it's doing to people. He knows Nymphadora Tonks, and she is much better than this. Instead of fighting anymore, he stuffs his book and a few other things into his bag and leaves. He'll spend the night working in his office or the campus's library, which is open twenty-four hours a day, and come home after he knows that she's gone to sleep.

—

All of the green looks fake against this dark, gray-skied evening, and Hermione is glad to find shelter in Sirius Black's bar/microbrewery, The Black Dog.

"Can I get you anything?" The boy-young man,really-from behind the bar asks Hermione once she perches herself upon a tall barstool all the way at the corner end.

The young man's hair is jet black and utterly unruly to the point that he should be wearing a hairnet if he's handling food. His brilliant green eyes behind round glasses gleam a warm welcome to Hermione on this chilly night and he watches her with interest.

"Yes, I'd love a glass of pinot grigio if you have it."

"Sure thing." And he goes further back behind the counter in search of a wine bottle opener and brings it and a bottle back to her. Once it's cracked open, he chuckles at the exhausted look on her face. "Would you like me to just stick a bendy straw straight into the bottle?" He offers her a cheeky smile and she actually laughs for the first time in what seems like days, though its only been hours.

Instead, he pours her a full glass and then goes back to stocking the shelves with clean dishes.

Further along the bar, all the way at the other end, it appears that Sirius has as of yet noticed her and she'd rather keep it that way. She knows that he would be all too eager to talk her ear off or ask her a million questions and she isn't quite in that kind of conversational mood tonight.

She makes it to the end of her drink and orders a second when he finally does notice her. The young man who has poured her drink is long gone, probably on break or already heading home.

"Whoa," Sirius mummers when he looks up to see who has come into the brewery so late.

He's holding a stack of what appears to be playing cards in his hands, stopping mid-shuffle to look at her, and a dark-haired man on a stool opposite Sirius is holding his head in his hands, empty glasses littered around him.

"What the hell happened to you?" Sirius calls from his end of the bar.

Hermione sighs, knowing she should scoot closer so they don't have to shout at one another to speak. This is absolutely the most cliche thing someone can ask you and is always indicative of looking like utter shit to the other party.

Before she can answer, the only other person in the room speaks up.

"Go on Sirius, tell me what you see." The dark-haired man taps a finger on the bar, demanding Sirius deal the cards. "Is she messing around with him?"

"Don't be stupid, James," Sirius sniffs down at the man. "It doesn't work like that."

James throws back more of his ale and taps yet again on the bar.

"Oi!" Sirius shouts. "Quit messing' up my towelie or I won't give you _any_ kind of reading."

James ignores Sirius yet again. "Is Lily messin' around with Snivellus?"

Not even caring about being left alone or if she's interrupting anything at this time (since his friend James here seems so drunk and is probably being melodramatic), Hermione throws herself into a barstool near James with a huff and rests her cheek on her fist.

James turns to glare at her. "Who're you?"

"That's Hermione," Sirius says, shuffling the cards once more and Hermione notices they are larger and wider than playing cards. He pulls her a sour beer that she knows she will love so well. "Help you with your sorrows, love?"

James looks at her with one bleary eye and she's taken aback. It's like the young man behind the bar had aged almost twenty years in a matter of minutes, only they have different eyes. "Oh, you're going through something, as well? Go on."

"I got into a row with my boyfriend on the phone."

James waves a dismissive hand and puffs out a derisive sigh. "Those things are easy."

Sirius glares at his friend. "Shut up, James. Quit being a shit head." Then to Hermione. "Would you like me to give you—"

But she's speaking at the same time, "What are you doing with—"

She smiles at their synchronized speech and waves him to continue.

"I was just asking if you'd like for me to give you a reading." He holds up the cards, the backs of them facing her and she notices that they aren't the playing cards she assumed them to be and that the two of them hadn't been playing a game when she came inside.

"Sirius is a fortune teller," James tells her, as though he's just telling her the time, when she gives a slightly confused expression towards the bartender.

"I'm not a fortune teller," Sirius assures her, giving a self-deprecating grimace and short shake of the head, once he reads the look of utter skepticism on her face. "I just picked up the hobby of reading tarot cards and sometimes do them for people."

"Yeah, fifty bucks a pop," James mutters, sliding the empty pint glass in between both of his hands. "Not even a discount for your best mate."

"Can't blame a bloke for trying to earn some extra cash." Sirius shrugs as though it's the simplest thing in the world to understand before looking at Hermione in a way that tells her he's waiting on an answer.

"I can think of a list of better things to spend fifty bucks on," Hermione says, stirring her drink.

He sits the cards down, face up (The Magician is showing on top). He frowns at her curt speech, so unlike what he's becoming used to getting from her. "So, Ron's _really_ upset you then, hasn't he?"

Her head shoots right up at this, the hand it was resting on falls into her lap. "How do you know that?" Her eyebrows knit together as she narrows her eyes at him. "I never told you his name."

"Of course you did." Sirius says this easily, but he moves away from her to grab some water out of the tap for himself. "You said his name at the party the other night." He gestures towards her with the glass as though toasting her.

James watches their changing expressions and silent conversation as though he's watching a tennis match.

Finally, she surmises, "I don't think so."

"Well, perhaps you did during our walk."

"I don't think I ever mentioned that to you."

"You did. You told me you were new to our little town and you told me about the friends you left back home. Ron and Ginerva."

Hermione shakes her head. She doesn't recall ever mentioning Ginny to anyone in the town yet…

Sirius takes her silence as confirmation that she's done with this conversation. For now, at least. "Did Remus give you some chocolate when you saw him today?"

"What?" It's the most jarring transition into another bit of conversation that she doesn't even bother hiding her confusion. "No. Should he have?"

"I just know he keeps a flipping great dish out on his desk. It's stuffed full of good things that he never bothers to share with anyone and I was just curious if he shared with you." Sirius drinks from his glass and looks at her once he brings it away from his lips, as though he's watching for something. "You're nice and quiet, like he is. If he's gonna share his candy with anyone, it's you."

James finally speaks up so suddenly that Hermione almost forgot he was here at all. "He brings my wife chocolate from time to time. Something he used to do when we were in school. Be honored if he ever shares—apparently only the blessed ones get it or something," James rolls his eyes in another very Sirius way. He's quiet for a minute until his eyes widen as though he's had an epiphany and he's seeing Hermione for the first time. "Hey! _You_ go to the school! What do you think of Snivellus? Is he dreamy in some weird way that _we_ ," he gestures towards himself and Sirius behind the bar, "don't understand?" James throws his hands into his hair and ruffles it up to make it look messy.

She notices that he and Remus have the same habit, but appear to do it for different reasons. Remus's hands turn into two balls of nerves that he need to plunge into something to keep busy; James only wants to look as striking as possible.

'Not Remus,' she chides herself mentally. 'Professor Lupin.'

Instead, she answers aloud, "Yes, I go there. But unless you're talking about another Professor Snape who happens to share the same embarrassing childhood nickname, then I have no idea why 'dreamy' would ever be used in a sentence about that man."

Sirius barks out a laugh and almost drops his glass. He holds onto the lip of his side of the bar to steady himself.

"She's seeing him," James says to Sirius who straightens up immediately. "I know she is." James shrugs as though he doesn't care, but the look on his face says something completely otherwise. He gladly takes another pint of beer from Sirius.

"Lily would never do that to you, mate." Sirius's voice is low enough that Hermione should know better than to listen to the rest of their conversation, but she can't help it. She's already in on it this far.

She drinks a few more glasses of wine, and Sirius offers to walk her home, no funny business. She thanks him when she unlocks her door and then collapses into bed.

—

She's alone with Professor Lupin again. They're supposed to be getting a move on with annotated bibliographies for the research they'll be presenting in a couple of months, only they stopped working a long time ago and have been drinking tea and coffee and listening to the stereo play softly in the background for quite some time.

She's been watching the rain outside the only window in the office and she's had a feeling that he's been watching her the whole time. Her suspicion is correct when she hears him clear his throat to speak and catches him eyeing her intimately and in a way that should make her squirm, but doesn't.

"Does he take care of you?"

There's a heaving liquid heat that pools in her pelvis when he asks this, his voice low and dangerous as his eyes flit a trail of electricity from her lips to her eyes. The consonants curl around his teeth and tongue in a sharp lust falling off his tongue. His amber eyes glow pointedly—they both know this is no innocent question; the innuendo is unmistakable.

She parts her lips to answer him in some way, but if anything could come out, it would only be dust. She closes her mouth and looks up at him, almost afraid. Because she knows he knows the answer to this, yet he asks her again. This time he uses his teacher voice, as though he's simply asking her about a passage they just read in class.

"Your boyfriend. Does he take good care of you, Hermione?" He tilts his head ever so slightly to the side and examines her studiously, expectantly. The predatory shadow has escaped his face, and she is left only with his keen gaze and a couple day's worth of stubble, and an exhausted darkness under his eyes.

His hands plunge into his hair and he pushes it back. It's unwashed enough that most of it stays in place this way. When his hands fall from his head, they rest loosely between his spread thighs. Hermione's quickly eyes his hands and where they are and she swallows hard and feels her face flush even harder at the indecent outline of his cock against the tight strain and seam of his trousers.

Did he even ask this question a first time? Surely not polite Remus Lupin—mild mannered, always concerned about everyone before himself…She must be mistaken, and if she isn't, he will be apologizing for his impunity once he realizes what he's asked her, as he usually does when the things he truly desires to ask or say slip out from behind his mask of propriety.

He stands when she does and she asks just what he thinks he's trying to start with her in this moment. She sees that not only is his office door shut, but the lock's nub is turned at an angle to show that they are securely locked in with one another.

"There's always a danger in starting something. Whether or not it's intended to be finished, it must eventually come to some kind of end, for better or worse. A decision must be made. How do you wish to handle our crossroads?" The dangerous glint is back and he moves closer to her, backing her into a wall as he towers over her, pressing a palm onto the wall, just above her right ear and leans closer and closer and…

When she wakes, she is trembling and her muscles ache with a dull and strange relaxation. The inside of her thigh is sticky and her knickers are absolutely soaked—she thinks she has wet the bed. Only she hasn't and she doesn't know how she's going to face her professor in the morning after having a near sex dream about him. She bites her trembling lip. He didn't even touch her in the dream, but here she is, a post-orgasm slicked slit in between her legs. She whimpers when she slides out of bed onto trembling legs.

Surely, this madness is reserved only for cough syrup filled fever dreams slicked with whiskey sweats. She feels a dry, desperate thirst sprung from hungover dehydration. She just drank too much wine last night and slept it off in the worst way possible. Yes?

She showers, dresses in proper day-clothes, and lowers herself onto the foot of her bed. It's three past midnight. She watches for the sun outside her window and waits for the morning to come.

—

Sunrise can look so different in a lot of places, and this one greets her in such a way that she feels as though she's walking into a completely different life when she leaves her building for the day.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Thanks to everyone who is still reading this piece and a special thanks to the guest who left the loveliest comment I've ever received on here for the past chapter. I couldn't find a way to respond to it, so I'm putting it here for you. I do hope that this piece continues to get you into the fall spirit and does not disappoint. Also, I'm striving to update this piece every 7-10 days.

Disclaimer: As always, anything recognizable belongs to J.K. Rowling and I'm not making any money off of this.

Severus Snape beats the sunrise on his way out this morning as he heads to Lovegood's Coffee Goods.

Sleep never came to him last night (or during many nights, for that matter) and he now feels a dull, dry ache behind his eyes from sitting up in the dark and doing next to nothing. He'd paced, he'd alphabetized his home library, he'd walked to and from his kitchen and bathroom and flicked the lights on and off again. He stared at his reflection for a very long time, waiting for it to communicate some nonverbal truth to him that never came. When he couldn't stand it any longer, he got dressed like a real person and decided to go ahead and leave for the day, his school bag slung over the poor frame of his shoulders.

Xeno Lovegood and his wife always open their coffee shop before the morning can ever see first light, for which Severus is grateful—he is in dire need of caffeine at the moment.

He's had a breakfast date with Lily Evans Potter planned for days now and the anticipation he's had for it has made him insufferable and cranky the past few days. They'd been seeing each other sporadically since mid-summer, just catching up, and oftentimes just sitting in one another's silence. Before then, they hadn't spoken in ages—ever since before they graduated school; they never spoke all throughout college and hadn't even kept in touch when he went away for his additional degree programs. There was a clean break between the two when they were fifteen or so.

Severus only returned home because he was promised a post in the Humanities' faculty by the Dean and his previous mentor, Albus Dumbledore. Lily caught wind of this through Remus and a few others, but it wasn't until her son, Harry, started at the college (he graduated this previous year) that she called Severus at his office phone number out of the blue one day. She'd planned to chew him out and tell him she hoped he felt like he'd accomplished something by all but forcing her son to drop his class as an elective. She had a feeling if she came at him with that, he would only reply with something about Harry being just like his father and that was a whole other can of worms she wanted to leave shut tight for a while longer still.

But when Severus answered her call, she didn't say much at all and neither did he. She would call once a month after that and ask him how he was doing. The calls increased in frequency and she evolved to asking more caring (but still quite cautious) questions: 'are you eating enough, Sev? Are you getting enough sleep? Don't read in the dark, and don't read your computer screen in the dark or with your face too close to it. Are you typing frequently? Mind to take breaks—don't get premature arthritis.'

And then they started having coffee breaks on the days that he didn't have to teach any lessons. They even made coffee dates during days they did have to work now that she was so much closer to the Hollow once again. She'd stopped working at the hospital closer to the bigger city a few years ago—the emergency room where she was a nurse had been far too grisly; instead, she took to working at the Hollow's university library part time, hoping for something quieter, yet interesting, and has been there for a couple of years now.

Severus is closer to the coffee shop now, and the sky is turning a familiar pink and orange as daylight greets him. He sneers at the coming light. He so prefers the gloomier gray days that the autumn gifts them as well as this refreshing chill that sips around before the hard and painful wintry gales come along in late November.

Severus finds that he isn't the only patron already in the coffee shop. Draco Malfoy is alone at his own table, a notebook and novel spread out in front of him. Severus would like to tell the young man he's glad that he's reading something more substantial than a gossip rag about people he doesn't even know. Instead, he just nods politely at Draco when he passes by to grab his own table near the large picture window. Draco nods back and his head dips back down into his studies. Severus starts on his own bits of academic work until daylight and the proper morning brings Lily into the shop and he goes to order their drinks.

She settles into her chair and scoots closer to the table and smirks up at him when he's returning to his seat. "Sirius tells me that the new student ran into you the other day."

"Indeed," he draws the word out much longer than necessary as he sits their respective cups on the table, hers in front of her folded hands, his on top of his closed textbook. His eyebrow is arched as he waits for her to go on and he gathers his loose papers into a tidy pile and slides them away from the table's center.

"And you weren't very nice to her." Lily frowns at her oldest friend as she dumps a packet of sugar into her coffee, gazing at him while she stirs it with a small spoon.

Severus rolls his dark eyes and clutches at his own espresso, but doesn't drink. "She needed to learn who is in charge at the school," he shrugs, avoiding her gaze. "It's always easier to get to students upon first meeting. Although, I daresay, it wasn't the girl who annoyed me. I am more miffed at Minerva for never showing up that day."

Lily sighs and sips at her drink. "Please, Severus. From the way Sirius describes the girl, she seems to be an all right person. I don't think you need to worry about her challenging your authority; in fact, she seems more like the type that will be desperate for your approval." Severus snorts at this and Lily sips her drink again and smiles at him. "Also, I don't think Minerva would like to hear you bitching about her so soon into term. I truly believe she only goes on sabbatical to get away from you, anyway."

Severus drinks his coffee, not even flinching when the too hot heat scorches the tip of his tongue. He forces back a small smirk at what Lily has said and instead wrinkles his nose at the espresso's bitterness. He sits his cup back on the small table that separates he and Lily. Their knees almost touch under the table top and he shifts his position slightly, drawing one leg up over the other one, his free hand grabbing at his bony ankle when his trouser leg rides up in the movement. He rests his chin on his other fist, trying too hard to not sit as hunched and slouched as he normally does. Lily, of course, is as light as a ballerina and sits with such effortless poise—he always was so envious of her straight back and perfect posture and how nothing but the best is ever comfortable for her. There's already a rusting ache underneath his shoulder blades from this sitting pose, as he is not used to such forced support.

They dwell in a comfortable silence, and for a moment, it's just like the old days: before Potter and Black and Malfoy and the petulant throes and woes of adolescence disrupted the tight-knit friendship and intimate bond that he and Lily shared. This new silence is mature and comfortable and in an instance, it feels like nothing has changed at all and Severus feels a great swelling wave of nostalgic affection. He thinks of the many mornings they would have coffee and tea before walking to school together years ago. This was also before Black got his obnoxious motorbike and offered her rides to class when idiotic Potter skived off lessons, leaving Severus (Snivellus in those days) quite literally in the dust and holding Lily's half-empty morning drink.

The silence and golden moment is, of course like all things, mutable. It shifts when she stiffens and her attention is brought to the massive window that separates their table from the sidewalk and street and other shops and patrons outside.

Narcissa Malfoy and Regulus Black walk by, Narcissa's hands full of shopping bags, her face full of poisonous glee when she spots Lily Evans Potter and Severus Snape cozied up at the smallest table possible inside the Lovegoods' coffee shop. She points at them through the window and says something to Regulus who shoots them a less than clean look and he laughs easily with Narcissa as they make their way past the shop. They shoot one more look before they round the corner and go out of sight.

Lily sighs and shakes her head.

'Here it comes,' he thinks. 'She's remembered how embarrassing it is to be seen with me, and she's going to drop me again.'

Instead, she finally speaks. "Despite whatever the hell those two are about to run off and tell everybody, Im not leaving my husband, Sev."

There's the nickname he thought he'd never hear again and his guts are fire and ice. He doesn't know what to do with these feelings that should have died a long time ago. Ever good at suppression, however, he shoots back with a frown, "What does he think about you spending so much time with me again?"

"I don't care what he thinks." But Severus really hears what she doesn't say loud and clear: James Potter has no idea that Lily Evans Potter has once again slipped into a friendship with her oldest, and once dearest, school mate. James Potter has no idea that Lily is being emotionally supported by another man—the man that he's despised since childhood. And Severus's self-loathing has peaked its previous limit once he feels an euphoric thrill flit through his chest at this thought.

He steadies himself. "Apathy is the destroyer of relationships, you know. No doubt it is the number one destroyer of all marriages. There is no doubt in my mind that your idiot husband has any idea what exactly is going on with you, but I guarantee that he knows when you see me and he's developing some misunderstanding about us once again. You just better hope he can keep that mongrel, Black, on a leash if they're in the throes of hatching some sort of moronic revenge scheme."

"I don't know why you can't let this schoolboy grudge go." Her face is flushed—he always knew how to unhinge her. "Harry was able to let bygones be bygones with the Malfoy boy." She nods her head towards Draco who is still working, but now has headphones on and is listening to his CD player. "Speaking of the Malfoys, I suppose you're still around them all the time? No doubt Cissy just loved seeing you in here a moment ago…"

This time, he does smirk and she rolls her eyes at his triumph. "What was it that you were just preaching about bygones?"

"It's different with them and you know it." But she's already cracking up in a quiet laughter, and he actually chuckles when she tries to put on a serious face. "They're _creepy_."

Their shared laughter dies down and Severus can't think of the last time he actually cracked a smile that wide.

He drinks more of his espresso and watches her add more cream to her coffee and look out the window at more passersby.

"The Malfoys never tried to kill me," Severus mutters and her gaze turns to him. He sees all the guilt in the world behind her eyes and creased into her brow. 'How extraordinarily like Lupin she is in this aspect,' he thinks and then continues aloud. "And besides, if you believe them to be so extraordinarily creepy, do keep in mind that they are kin to dear old Sirius."

"He's nothing like them." There's a harsh, fierce burn in her eyes now. Her emotions fly on and off as though someone is flipping a switch in her brain and chemistry.

And he's immediately irate with her for taking what he's said the wrong way, so he's curt now, as well. " _Isn't_ he?" Severus sets his jaw and his long fingers clutch around his espresso cup.

"No. And I don't like the company the Malfoy's keep. That's who is the worst out of the lot of them."

"That lot includes myself." He rubs at his face in exasperation with both hands. This morning's coffee was not supposed to go this way. Now, he's going to be in tightly wound coils all day. He'll be intolerable, insufferable—

"You know I love you, Sev," her hand comes out of nowhere and covers one of his angry ones around the cup. His grip loosens and he lay his hand palm down on the table. Her's is so tiny, but tries to cover the top of his anyway, her skin milky and creamy as what she puts in her coffee, browned with freckles. He stares at a rather large freckle perfectly centered in between her first two knuckles.

He raises an eyebrow and shock shifts across his features. Anyone else wouldn't notice it, but this is his oldest friend. And she actually blushes at this admission of her's and mutters something about her meaning this sentiment just as friends.

"Talk about being like school children," he murmurs, twisting his wrist to catch her hand in his and runs his thumb over hers before letting her go and dropping his hands into his lap. She mirrors him and listens to him. "Here we are growing closer to forty everyday and are bickering like we're fifteen again." A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth again, but he looks out the window in a such a fit of forlorn melancholy that even Lily can't read. "I cannot fix your marriage, Lily. And if you've called me here as some sort of ploy to make Potter jealous…if that's why you've come back into my life at all—"

But she cuts him off at this and tugs on his shirt sleeve near his wrist to get his attention back to her. "I know you're lonely and I have missed you _so much_ over the years. Doesn't it mean something that I'm trying to make up for lost time? I like seeing you because we're _friends_ and there's nothing awful about friends seeing one another. Despite what people believe, men and women _can_ be friends, Sev."

Severus doesn't say anything, but feels as though a wound never quite properly healed or stitched up is slowly ripping at the seams once again. He aches just to watch her bring the dainty cup to her lips with such ageless grace and her pinkie finger sticking out that he _does_ feel fifteen again and hates her for it, but mostly hates himself. Because at thirty-nine, he thought he would be better than this. Smarter than this. Mature enough to believe her sentiment that they _could_ be friends, that _he_ could just be friends with her without the vitriolic hope that she would leave James Potter, after all. Hell, he'd always hoped once the brat was grown and out of the house that she wouldn't have enough reasons to stay with her husband.

No.

He thinks, 'No relationship is ever absolutely easy…and if it is, then perhaps both parties are not paying attention to what's really going on. They're willing to ignore it just to avoid hassle and their own problems or even reality itself.'

But, is he willing to feel such dreadful anguish in the presence of her for yet another year, another decade, of his life as he spent his youth and twenties?

Of course.

He would do anything for Lily Evans. He would suffer for her and suffer her presence until his dying breath.

She knows he's thinking, but not of what, but she knows him: ever calculating, ever pragmatic, ever cynical Severus Snape. She knows he'll never tell her what exactly he's thinking, either. But the mystery and overbearing conceitedness of his internal life that he's never shared is part of the package, and part of what she loves about him the best—she knows no one else quite like him. Perhaps Remus, but never to this degree and never cut from this same darkness. Although…perhaps lately…

"I appreciate you reaching out to me these past few weeks especially after all these years of absences, Lily. I really do. Perhaps it was premature and even despicable of me to assume you wish to see me again out of anything over than genuine friendship. I apologize for my hasty remarks." He gives her a small smile, one that actually reaches his eyes and one she hasn't seen in ages.

"That's fine, Severus." She checks her wristwatch and squints against the glare of the sunlight boring into the window once a cloud shifts and sets its beams free. "I suppose you must get to the college soon?"

"Yes. I ought to tidy up my lesson plans."

"Shall we meet again? Soon?" Her brow is hopeful and he sees the younger woman still inside and he melts. A pang shoots through every fibre of his being, daring him to deny her.

He nods his head at her politely. "Of course. May I call you? Or you can call me; whichever is more convenient for you. I don't mind."

She smiles. "I'll call you, Severus." And of course she would. One of the unspoken rules of these little dances always include the stipulation that he is not allowed to call her at home.

He nods lightly and they both stand at the same time, neither coffee finished at all. She moves to him and holds her arms open, beckoning him for a hug. He opens his arms rigidly, weakly, and she chuckles before pulling his lean and towering frame to herself, wrapping her arms lightly around his waist. He pats her between her shoulder blades twice.

"Goodbye, Lily."

She clutches at the front of his shirt in her tiny fist and her perfect eyes shine a light into his darkness. He swallows hard at her minuscule smile and breaks away from her.

Hermione takes a deep breath when she gets off the elevator. Yes, it is one of those mornings where the stairs aren't even an option, especially when carrying too many things and multiple collisional disasters are a possibility. She passes the main office swiftly, but not before she sees Draco's blonde head lift up when he hears the elevator's ding indicating that someone has arrived.

She can't wave—she's carrying a coffee that she picked up from the small cafe on the outskirts of campus in each hand. Instead, she offers him a small smile and he gives her an acknowledging nod in return and then goes back to whatever he's working on at his desk. She smiles to herself when she thinks that he's probably not doing anything work-related. She wonders if he ever gets any work done at all and if he's able to get away with such slacker tendencies because of who his father is.

She trudges down to the end of the hall to find Professor Lupin's office door wide open—good, at least she doesn't have to put the coffee on the floor in order to knock. She peers in to make sure she won't completely startle or interrupt him from anything too important.

But he's just standing by his window, pacing small steps to and from it and his bookcase. He's balancing a text in one hand and is using a finger on his free hand to trace every sentence he's reading, mouth moving noiselessly. The book is close to his face, and she notices he's not wearing his reading glasses.

"Er, Professor Lupin?" She calls in, timid to set a foot beyond the threshold until she's been invited inside, like some kind of academic vampire.

He looks up at her in surprise and closes his book on a finger to hold his place. He checks the time on his wristwatch and speaks to it rather than her, "Right on time. Come in, please, Miss Granger. I apologize. I must have lost track…"

She notices he's not as warm as he has been when they've met one another on their few occasions. She frown at this, but perhaps this is preferable—it would be much harder to deal with him being nice to her. That would only make her feel more terrible and much more guilty about her dream last night.

"Thank you."

He places his book, pages down, at the corner of his desk and moves closer to her as she comes in and she feels her heart still for a moment, recalling flashes of her dream.

"Is that for me?" He nods towards the coffee in her left hand.

"Yes."

She notices just how tired he looks now that he's this much closer to her. Not only that, but she also notices how he's wearing the same clothes as yesterday, and looks more flustered and irate than she's ever seen some look this early in the morning. She glances over at the chair behind his desk and sees he's pulled another one of the chairs near it, a decorative throw pillow and coat upon it.

"Did you sleep here last night?" The question flies out of her mouth before she can even stop it.

It's a stupid question because the only answer is yes, obviously. His clothes look visibly slept-in and his hair is a shaggy mess. She also didn't think it was possible someone could grow that much stubble overnight, not that he is ever totally clean shaven.

He takes the coffee with a grateful look. She notices his amber eyes have a ring of gold coiled around the black pupils and these tiny flecks are the brightest, most vibrant thing about him this morning. He still hasn't smiled at her yet and she wonders if perhaps they should reschedule, that he would relish some more time alone to recharge before dealing with other people later in the day. She almost proposes this when he answers her,

"Thank you for bringing this, Miss Granger." He's absolutely ignoring the question she just asked him. "But you didn't need to. Please don't bother to in the future. I'm aware of how little money students have and I daresay the stipend for this fellowship does not pay very handsomely." Then there's the small smile that sparks a kindness in his eyes and she exhales a breath she didn't even know she was holding in.

"It's fine, Professor, really." She says earnestly, glad to finally have a free hand after her cumbersome walk. "If you weren't going to take it, I would have drank it."

He goes to sip from the cup, but stops himself. "Yes, you look like you didn't get any sleep last night. Are you quite sure you wouldn't like this back?" He stretches his arm out to hand it back to her.

"I didn't sleep very well. I think I had a nightmare in the middle of the night. And just," she pauses and avoids his eye contact as he watches her and tries to read her face, "couldn't go back to sleep," she finishes lamely.

"I see." He drums his ring finger on the coffee cup thoughtfully before raising a concerned eyebrow. "Would you like to reschedule?"

"No!" She blushes at how loud and quickly she shouts this at him. "No, I just don't want either of us to get behind." She pauses a beat. "Unless _you_ need to reschedule?"

"That's fine. No, I'm glad you're here. I'll be fine. Please, have a seat." He sweeps his arm towards the seat she was in yesterday and she drops her backpack on the floor next to her.

He's sitting down when she asks if it's all right that she uses some space on his desk opposite him to sit her coffee and to write in a notebook and he obliges, giving her another small smile and she feels significantly better and loses all notions that she is encroaching upon him.

He digs in one of his drawers for a spell before producing a stack of papers. "These are chapters from books, and articles from journals I've scanned. I've read all of these and marked up some notes and underlined excerpts I need to include in my research paper and conference presentation. I wondered if perhaps you wouldn't mind taking half to type it all up and save it on this," he produces a slim, black floppy disk from another drawer. "I'll do the rest. I know it's grunt work, but it needs to be done. I would also love for you to become acquainted with the materials at least in some way. I think it could be useful for you." He extends his arm to give her the disk and he gives her a small smile through amused, narrowed eyes. "I bet you've even read some of these materials already, haven't you?"

She watches him thumb through the stack and is glad that he can't see the blush she feels heating her face. "Perhaps I have. And of course I don't mind to help you type these things up." She unzips her backpack's front pouch and slides the disk in and closes it again.

When he's finished thumbing through the massive amount of readings, he hands over her own hefty stack of papers. She flicks through them and scans titles and authors.

He does the same with his own and says matter-of-factly, "I _did_ sleep here last night. I'd hoped it wouldn't be so obvious. I daresay, if anything, I'm more embarrassed to be seen wearing the same clothes I was in yesterday."

She looks up from Donna Haraway's 'A Cyborg Manifesto' and takes in his first embarrassed look of the morning. "Don't feel bad. I thought I looked absolutely put-together when I left the house this morning, but you saw right through that." She offers a weak, self-deprecating smile which he returns.

"I didn't mean to be so crass." He stretches his neck from side to side and rubs at it slightly, eyes closed. "I came here to do some work last night. Sometimes I can't work at home. I suppose I lost track of time and fell asleep in my chair." He opens his eyes to see that she's gone back to reading Haraway. "That's such a brilliant, innovative piece. I just want to put all of that in my paper."

"That's called plagiarism," she quips, a small smile curling at the corners of her mouth. She looks up at him to find his amused expression at her cheek. "I hate doing work at home sometimes, too," she admits. "Too many distractions."

"You're welcome to come to work in here anytime the door's open." He bites his bottom lip once this comes out, and then rushes to finish. "Or, you know, our library stays open twenty-four hours."

She places a hand on her chest and her eyes shine bright. "I can't believe that. That's phenomenal. I should just move in there now, break the lease at my apartment."

He chuckles at this, smiling down at his papers, peering up slightly with his next question. "Do you have a roommate or something that keeps you distracted?"

It's time for her to chew her own lip. "No. It's just sometimes my social life interferes far too much with my studies. And I had a row with my boyfriend on the phone last night. It's stupid." She shakes her head, both at what happened last night and at herself for sharing such personal details with her professor of all people. Surely this is highly inappropriate. She doesn't want to seem unprofessional, so she apologizes. "I'm sorry; forget I said that."

"That's fine, Miss Granger. What you're going through…most of us have experienced and understand. You're not the only one suffering from problematic personal issues." He mumbles the last bits and goes to read his own stack of papers. She knows he is trying to speak generally, but with his body language and avoidance of her now, she knows he's speaking of himself.

Hermione wants to tell him he can talk to her about it since she is not without her own admissions to him, but she doesn't think this a proper route to go, so she doesn't say anything and he takes this for him being rude.

"I apologize," he frowns and curls his hands into a ball of nerves, dragging them to the edge of the desk. "That was probably out of line."

"Not at all."

But he looks embarrassed again so she pretends to read through the Haraway piece even though she _has_ read it before, and he goes back to his own papers, eyes unmoving upon the pages.

She wants to take the attention away from him, save him some mortification. "Sirius's friend is going through something like that, too. A relationship issue." She doesn't know why she just tells this man these things. Perhaps because he's friends with Sirius and it feels safe to tell him about it. And she feels like she and Sirius are on a path to being good friends—she already feels invited into some facet of this new world, and it just feels good to talk about a person she and Lupin share in their lives.

"Which friend? James?" And then Professor Lupin chuckles at himself. "God, I say that like we have any other friends."

"Yes, I met him last night. Er, kind of, I suppose."

"You met James last night," Lupin echoes this and a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Where was this at? No way it could have been any place decent?"

"I wasn't aware Sirius's microbrewery was indecent."

"'Microbrewery'," Lupin echoes and this time he smiles wider, with his teeth, then bites at his lower lip. "That place was the nastiest hole in the wall when he bought it. James loaned him some money—a lot of money—to purchase it. I thought everyone in our little family was going to have an absolute come apart over it." He chuckles. "Harry was the only person excited about it. I'm sure you met Harry if you were there last night. James's son? He's Sirius's godson, hired him immediately after he graduated from here last year."

"I met Harry. He gave me what I'm now referring to as 'the dangerous wine'."

"The what now?" Lupin's eyes sparkle with the wonder of a younger man and it makes him look quite handsome.

"He gave me this white wine and I accidentally drank too much," Lupin chuckles at 'accidentally' and she smiles and goes on, "and Sirius had to walk me home."

He smiles warmly at her, so tickled by the fact that someone like her could let go like that and that she has no trouble fitting in with the people he loves so well. It's been a while since someone this refreshing came around. "Sirius is great about helping those who overindulge." He straightens his papers up and folds his hands over the stack. "I suppose James and his wife, Lily, are still cross with one another for him giving Sirius far too much money for that bar."

It makes sense to Hermione now, with regards to how James didn't think her problem with Ron was that serious at all.

They return to a comfortable silence and scratch quietly at their papers with pencils and squeaking highlighters. The sun goes back behind some clouds and the office darkens, and they don't seem to notice, but bend a little closer to their work. The coffee is gone after awhile and Lupin offers to go refill the cups in the office, plucking both up after they remove their respective lids.

Hermione is further along in her reading of Haraway, tracing the space in between printed lines with her now dull pencil tip when Lupin returns with coffee. He sits hers where it previously was and bends slightly to read over her shoulder. "Oh, yes, the dualities she lists. 'Male/female, active/passive.' She is going beyond simply deconstructing them here, yes?"

"Yes," Hermione breathes this out, suppressing a shudder when he grabs at the back of her chair to lean lower and closer to read the list.

"She notes 'civilized/primitive,' yet I wonder how different the sentiments would be had she instead replaced that with 'man/beast'." He notices just how closely he is leaning into her, his chest nearly flush with the back of the chair, his cheek inches from her own, her scent filling the gaping and empty spaces in his head.

He pulls back slowly and coughs, clears his throat, and makes his way back to his desk where he sits his coffee down and watches her as the grip she's had on her pencil loosens. Had he startled her with such close proximity and now she's able to relax with this distance?

She studies him with keen interest. "Man/beast?" She asks, brow furrowing. "Like a monster?"

"I'm not sure if I mean a literal monster, but perhaps…I suppose I'm just considering 'The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde'. Was not his self split into a man and the other a ghastly representation of all aspects of humanity we keep so repressed and behind closed doors and behind masks of propriety?"

Hermione considers this—she hasn't read the piece in so long, probably closer to her teenage years. "I know it's one of the earliest pieces of literature to present us the concept of the double."

"Very good, Miss Granger," his quiet voice rumbles from his chest, in an almost growl or purr, and she can't help but blush at his dulcet tone and also at the slightly affectionate—' _was_ that affectionate?' she wonders—praise. "Consider the following, please. Could not one state that those aspects of ourselves, particularly once removed from all societal expectations and social mores, are quite beastly? This duality of man. One side is always repressed, but that repression is learned behavior."

She nods, listening to what he's saying and really soaks it in. She'd not ever thought this deeply about Stevenson's very short text, always being the fan of much longer pieces. "I like what you're saying—that makes the piece much more interesting and it actually makes me want to go read it again. But didn't Dr. Jekyll come to be Mr. Hyde through a scientific experiment gone awry?"

"Yes, he took a potion or a serum that is the catalyst of his transformations. But perhaps we can look at this as some kind of curse that transforms him into a monstrous beast—something so hideous that it is a physical manifestation or a mirror of the ill-doings that he commits throughout the story. His curse, so to speak, and the actions brought about after he transforms, are inexcusable. But what if the human condition itself is so cursed that we all have a beast inside and it's only a matter of time before it is released?" He steeples his fingers and gazes at her from behind them, tapping lightly at his chin with his index fingers.

She draws her legs up into her chair and cocks her head to the side and considers him. "The only time I've ever heard of something like this happening is in the case of the werewolf, and those are, of course, fictional. Purely mythological." She offers a slight smile, worried that perhaps she hasn't quite grasped what he's trying to articulate to her through his interpretations and speculations of Stevenson's novella. "Which has always been a sad creature to me. The affliction always seems to be brought about as no fault of the victim."

"It's a freak accident that happens. Chance meetings with a beast." He chews his lip thoughtfully and returns to his coffee with a shrug. "I'm just thinking about dualities now, extended beyond good/evil."

"Man/beast is definitely something to think about," she says, straightening her papers up once more and checks her watch. "I don't suppose we have a bit more time to continue with this?"

He checks the time and frowns slightly. "No, I have class in fifteen. But I'll see you in a meeting next week. Perhaps we can pick it up from there. It is something that I've been thinking of putting into my presentation, after all."

"That'd be enough time for me to thumb through the text again," she smiles.

He looks touched that she actually seems to care that much at all, and he waves his hand in a dismissive way. "Oh, I don't wish for you to trouble yourself with another reading load, Miss Granger. Particularly one that isn't mandatory. You've more than enough on your plate as it is. I don't want you to worry."

"I'll think about it some more," she assures him, waving her own hand as though to say she doesn't wish for him to worry, either. "If anything, it was an interesting conversation," she offers and starts collecting her things.

She bends her back lightly, head now below his desk, to start packing up her bag. She pulls out the spare sweatshirt (she takes one everywhere with her), and puts the papers in her backpack. She goes to stuff the charcoal colored hooded sweatshirt back in, but stops and sits upright. "Would you like to borrow this?" She holds the sweatshirt up. "I'm sure it would fit you; it swallows me up. I just…remember what you said earlier about feeling bad that you're dressed the same as you were yesterday." She extends her arm over the expanse of his desk and he considers it for a moment before accepting it.

"Thank you, Miss Granger. That's very thoughtful of you. Saves me a bit of an embarrassment." He lays it gingerly upon his lap and shrugs out of his cardigan, draping it over the chair near him.

He unbuttons his shirt collar, loosens his tie, twisting his neck slightly from side to side, and pulls the tie free, and tosses it upon the cardigan. He holds the cuffs of his shirt in his palms as he pulls the hooded sweatshirt over his head so the shirt sleeves don't ride up in the annoying way they are so good at when putting an extra layer on. He stands and tugs the sweatshirt down and it stops just at the waist of his trousers to where his belt is still visible. He looks down at it and smiles at the small, cartoonish scarlet and golden lion that lay lazily across the chest—the lion is pawing at a yellow ball of yarn. "A lion?"

She blushes, "I'm sorry. I collect hoodies, and I forgot which one was in here."

"No," he raises an eyebrow and a smile cracks so deeply into his face that he looks probably ten years younger. "This is adorable. I rather hope I run into Severus while wearing this today. This sort of thing absolutely annoys him. He doesn't fancy cuteness."

Lupin tugs at the hood with both hands and pulls it flush against his neck and draws the strings to have the hood hug his skin. He then takes the strings and ties them off separately, knotted near the small holes they come out of. Hermione finds this interesting; she'd never seen someone tie the strings like that before, but he thinks she's looking at him that way for drawing the hood close, so he explains, "I'm always prone to a cold neck, I don't know why."

"That's fine. I tend to run a bit cold, myself. You're welcome to borrow that as long as you'd like."

"No, it's fine; I'll return it to you after class tonight. You're still going to trivia night, aren't you?"

"Yes."

He considers her a moment, smiling, and feels like he's doing this too long so he breaks eye contact to root around on his desk for a pen. "Instead of walking together," he's found the pen and is fumbling with it in his stuttering hands and frantic fingers, "er, why don't I just meet you there?" He looks nervously around the room, trying to find some kind of excuse as to why they can't walk together like they previously planned, and like the answer will be spelled out on a wall somewhere.

But they both know why it isn't a good idea.

The same reason they didn't have to talk about why the office door is open today.

"That's fine—I'm sure you'd like to return your class materials back to your desk before you leave out for the night." Hermione has impressed herself with this quick thought.

He gives her a grateful and understanding look. He stuffs his pen into the hoodie's pouch and smiles down at the lion once more. "Thank you for this. I feel better already."

"It's no problem, at all. I'll see you tonight." She's aware at how breathless this promise sounds, so she roughly shoulders her bag and heads for his door. "Er, I mean in class, you know."

His hands plunge into his hair and he ruffles it out of nerves, trying to pass it off as grooming it into a decently presentable way. He sighs at his failure as the layers float back down or stick up at odd angles. She wants to tell him it looks fine. Better than fine, really, as she sees just how many more flecks of gray are hidden underneath.

"I'll see you later, Miss Granger." He leans against his desk slightly and he takes the hood's strings into his hands and holds the ends. "Perhaps your lion here will give me the bravery to face the day."

Hermione grabs her strap tightly into her hand and doesn't say anything as she leaves.

She goes towards the exit that leads to the stairs adjacent to his office, thinking she'll go to the library. She's surprised she hasn't been there yet. She pushes the door open, and a hand catches it from shutting behind her. She turns to apologize to who she was about to let it slam in front of, but it's Professor Lupin standing there and smiling down at her.

"Forgot your coffee." He offers it to her and she takes it, noticing that he's balanced a bite-sized piece of wrapped candy upon the lid.

Once Hermione's made it outside, she sees the sun has been swallowed up by the inevitable overcast clouds and the campus is enshrouded in not only the shade the trees provide, but from the darkened day. The wind runs a cold chill that tears through her clothes and the gust does not die down as the sky brings the lightest of rain droplets that touch everything, but doesn't quite dampen anything. Hermione didn't expect her mood to improve so significantly after her morning meeting with Professor Lupin, and she welcomes this change in weather as something comforting and exciting to be this much closer to fall instead of viewing it as an inconvenience.

She makes haste away from the Humanities building, down the path to the library, and skips the steps two at a time and pushes her way inside behind the large glass doors. Once she's shut in, she gladly lets the silence within swallow her. She passes the empty welcome desk by the entrance. The ceiling is higher than she could have imagined and is vaulted with pockets of white light pouring down, dulled by the fog and grayness steaming up the two massive windows at the center that meet in a V.

Bookcases line each wall, and there is a second floor visible behind bannisters that are not without their own expansive shelves. The center of the room is a neat walkway, but to the left and right all the way towards the back are long, large oak tables that seat twelve people (six chairs on each side), each seat separated by a small lamp. Few students sit near one another; backpacks, personal items, and stacks of books litter empty seat to ensure personal space is maintained. Heads are bent down and hands are fast at work.

Hermione doesn't even know where to start, and then she notices the long row stretching from left to right all the way in the back that has computer desktops. She heads over there, thinking to check her email inbox, and perhaps start typing up some of the papers Professor Lupin has entrusted her with.

She settles at the last one, at the corner and waits for it to come on and waits for the internet to boot up. She unzips her bag and pulls out only part of her stack of research papers, and also the floppy disk. She's scanning through the papers to see how much she'll have to type up when someone sits down beside her and she feels them face her.

"Are you friends with Draco Malfoy?" A dreamy voice asks her.

Hermione looks over and finds a petite blonde girl dressed in double denim: denim jeans, and a cut off denim jacket turned vest pulled over a bright orange t-shirt. The vest is dazzled with fake jewelry and cannot possibly fit any more patches or buttons on it. Most of them are band logos, like The Cars, The Cure, and The Smiths, but she also has patches of things like ice cream cones, cats, and bumblebees, and even a rainbow.

The girl smiles at her and Hermione notices her long, dangling earrings and very pretty hoop ring in her nose. Her light blonde hair is streaked in thick and generous chunks of lavender. She continues in her dreamy voice that Hermione likes quite a bit, "I just noticed the two of you walking around together the other day." The girl smiles at Hermione expectantly and Hermione can't help but smile back.

"Yes I think we are. Or shall be at some point, I suppose."

"Thats good," the girl turns towards her own computer and shakes the mouse to wake the monitor up. "He's very lonely. He needs a nice friend. He comes in my family's coffee shop all the time, but only when it's really early. He always asks if he can have our magazines if they've been sitting around for too long. He likes to pretend to keep up with the trends, but I think he just likes looking at the people in them and reading about relationships."

Hermione notices that her computer has been booted up, and suppresses an hysterical laugh when the girl mocks the beeps and boops of her own as it warms up and tries to turn on.

"Technology is such a funny thing," the girl goes on. "Everyone says it's going to kill us some day. I think they've all just been reading too much science fiction, don't you?" She faces Hermione again with the sweetest and most innocent blue eyes she's ever seen in her life.

Hermione wants to say that she agrees, but all she manages is, "Who are you?"

"I'm Luna," and Luna offers her hand to Hermione and they shake. "And you're Hermione. Draco told me when he came into the shop this morning after I asked him who I've seen him walking around with."

Hermione gives Luna her name and they both remark upon how lovely it is to have met one another.

Hermione is intrigued that someone as interesting as Luna would notice her and that Hermione has failed to notice Luna at all.

"It's hard to miss someone new around here," Luna all but answers a thought that Hermione didn't realize she had, "and the longer you're here, the harder it is to escape everyone's gaze."

They fall into an amiable silence once Luna's computer boots up and they turn to their respective work.

Hermione logs into her personal email account and sees that she has a new (poorly typed) message from Ron. She rolls her eyes before she can help herself and isn't sure if she wants to read it at all. But, out of respect for his words, she does open it. And immediately regrets it.

He's telling her how upset he is over their phone call last night, and that he feels like she's being unfair to him and what he wants and that she's not willing to hear him out, and that he wants her to call him back tonight. The message is brief, and it already exhausts her and completely dampens the good mood she felt fortunate enough after having this influx of anxiety lately. The thought of calling Ron later and having him dominate the conversation about things they've already discussed and things she doesn't want to listen to, she is no longer looking forward to this evening nor going home.

Hermione signs out of her email account without replying to him and inserts the floppy disk into the appropriate slot and pulls up a word processing document to start typing up passages from Lupin's research.

When she takes a break, her eyes wander to Luna's screen. The blonde girl is going through the past user's internet browsing history and she's deleting links one by one. Some of the pages are discussion boards and forums, one of the questions at the top being 'how to know when someone is in a cult' or 'how easy is it to leave a cult' and 'Y2K Doomsday predictions - fact or fiction?'.

"People are scared," Luna's voice brings Hermione out of her trance and before Hermione can apologize for creeping on Luna's screen, the blonde continues. "I like to get rid of this stuff on these things. I feel like some people leave these things behind just to frighten others if they stumble across it. It's a pity the times we live in."

Hermione spends the best part of her day working next to Luna, chatting amicably during breaks in between their work and study. Hermione forgot to pack a lunch or late afternoon snack with her, and Luna happily splits her peanut butter and banana sandwich and shares a massive tupperware dish full of grapes with her. Hermione is grateful for this wonderful afternoon and is touched by Luna's lack of hesitancy in helping a new friend. She invites Luna to a future lunch date so she can make it up to the younger girl and Luna is all too pleased at the proposal and asks her to please come visit her at her family's cafe when she works on Saturday. Hermione promises she will.

It gets closer to six, and Luna is off to a Mythology course and Hermione has Professor Lupin's Postmodern Literature and Theory seminar (for masters and doctoral candidates) until quarter to ten this evening. They walk to the Humanities building together, and Luna breaks away from Hermione when they reach the second floor and Hermione heads up to the third.

Hermione is nearly late to class after she took too long in the bathroom and filling up her empty coffee cup with water from a nearby fountain.

The classroom is a tight fit with eight desks arranged in a circle and all but two are filled. Professor Lupin is sitting in one himself, his back to the chalkboard. She notices Daphne and Pansy sitting together with their backs to the door and they whip around to glare at Hermione for banging the back of Pansy's chair when she opened the door almost too forcefully.

'Just lovely,' Hermione groans to herself.

"Miss Granger," Lupin greets her warmly, "please join us. We were just about to start. I've just finished role." He tugs her hoodie's sleeves midway up his forearms and points out her classmates, starting at his right. "Miss Chang, Mr. Longbottom, Miss Parkinson, Miss Greengrass, and Mr. Malfoy."

Hermione takes a seat next to Draco, leaving an empty one between she and Lupin.

"Everyone, this is Miss Granger. She is the only doctoral candidate we have this year and you'll most likely see her flit in between classrooms and offices as she fulfills her fellowship duties for the English department."

Daphne and Pansy share a cruel look of glee between one another and Hermione reads Pansy's lips as she mouths 'know-it-all'. Draco shoots them a filthy look and Hermione is grateful.

Hermione struggles with paying attention to Lupin's lecture as they pick apart excerpts from a Foucault piece of discourse. She keeps her head down and scribbles notes the entire time and does not answer any of Lupin's questions even though she knows the correct responses.

They have a ten minute break at the middle of the lesson and she wishes to stretch her legs so she roams over to the restrooms again and goes inside, hoping to splash her face with some cold water.

Daphne and Pansy are gossiping at one another from their respective toilet stalls and Hermione is frozen in the doorway and can't help but listen.

"Can you _believe_ that ridiculous thing he's wearing?" Daphne gasps.

Pansy's shriek of laughter echoes off the walls. "He should be ashamed. God, no one has ever given me secondhand embarrassment like that, I swear."

"Did you see he's wearing the same clothes?"

"Did you see his _hair_?"

"Did you see _Granger's_ hair?"

More shrieks of laughter.

Hermione foregoes the cold water and rounds the corner to head back to the classroom. Lupin is coming out of the men's restroom and is still drying his hands on a paper towel.

"Are you all right?" He asks, taken aback when he sees her.

"What? Yes. Why wouldn't I be?"

They fall into step with one another and head back to class, him peering down at her and picking at the paper towel he no longer needs.

"You just looked…murderous." He offers a chuckle and she sighs out a laugh.

"Just people being stupid in the bathroom."

He sniffs in disdain and holds the classroom door open for her. "Unfortunately, that happens a lot around here." He ushers her inside with the lightest push against the small of her back with the tips of his fingers.

Draco offers Hermione a ride home when class is dismissed.

"I can walk, thanks," she tells him when she shoulders her bag and lingers at her desk, waiting for Daphne and Pansy to leave. They give her a dirty look for talking to Draco. "Your friends are very rude."

"They're not my friends." He shoulders his bag and lets her walk in front of him as they leave and he follows her out of the building. "Would you like a ride or not, Granger? I'd rather not wait until sunrise for an answer."

It has gotten quite dark, especially from the overcast sky obscuring the moon and a severe lack of streetlights.

"I'd appreciate it, Draco."

"I need to stop and get some supplies first." He fishes his key ring out of his pocket and he swings them around one long finger.

She isn't surprised when his car is a 1999 convertible BMW.


	5. Chapter 5

**Now a Best AU nominee for the 2017 Marauder Medal from the Shrieking Shack Society!**

Disclaimer: As always, all recognizable things belong to J.K. Rowling.

A/N: In which Hermione spends time with Draco and, later, Harry. Perhaps a trigger warning is needed here: Hermione has a strange interaction/altercation with one of the Death Eaters. He accosts her while she's walking in the middle of the night and kind of corners her in an alley (it is a sloppy way to try and recruit her for something) and he touches her hair and face without her consent. I hate writing stuff like that, but needed a tense moment to start showing how she fits into all of the random stuff that'll be happening later. Sirius and Remus defend her honor (cliche, I know, but it's also supposed to reveal things about them, as well).

A/N 2: As always, thanks to everyone who reads, and takes the time to leave a review.

X X X X

Draco's 'supplies' end up being a bag of crisps and an 18 pack of shitty beer from a gas station. He promises her he doesn't drink and drive as he tucks the beer case away in the back seat, and she believes him.

"Where do you live Granger?" He's all but shoving the key into the car's ignition after he's put his seatbelt back on. She reminds him to turn his head lights on, as he's failed to do it so far. Dear God, if he was anything at driving like she is, they're probably in a world of trouble…

"Grimmauld Hall," she finally tells him when she realizes he's been waiting on her answer for far too long.

"No shit?" His eyebrows disappear into his hairline and she thinks this is the first time she's seen this happen.

"Yeah. Why?" She looks at him suspiciously. "Is there something about that place that I should know about? Too many cockroaches that hide away in secret?"

"Nothing like that." He waves her worry away with his long fingered hand. He puts the car into drive and pulls out of the desolate gas station.

"Come on, Draco. Tell me." She actually slaps his bicep, like they've been friends for ages and that this is just the usual reaction she would have to something he'd say to her.

Something about being in a car with someone makes everything feel much more intimate. Like you'd known someone your whole life, and that whatever happens in the car will be things that no one else will ever know about.

"You tell me something interesting first. Why've you been in such a foul mood every time I've met you?" He says this with no hesitancy or regard to propriety, like he's known her for months instead of days.

She rolls her eyes so hard that they hurt when she finally looks at him. When they get to a red light, he looks back at her and smirks, waiting, showing her that he could definitely do this all night if she really wanted to.

When she doesn't say anything, he takes initiative, "Uh, oh. Trouble in paradise?"

"Something like that," she mumbles. "Now, why the sudden interest in where I live, apart from the fact that you're dropping me off?"

"I asked you first." He squints at the neon stoplights, waiting for the change to green. He lets off on the gas in hopes to trigger the change and rolls forward at less than zero miles per hour, looking at her all the while. "Care to share?"

"I don't see why you should care at all."

"Come off it, Granger. I live for drama. You see the shite I read." And he nods towards the space in between them where a J-14 magazine is crammed. "I don't know Usher personally, so his drama won't be quite as thirst quenching as the new girl's. Now, spill the beans."

She sighs. What has she got to lose? They're having secret car conversations, after all. "The past twenty-four hours have been quite harrowing, to say the very least," she admits to him, totally surprised at how easy this comes out despite the look of pure putrid disdain painted on his face.

"'Harrowing'? Please, Granger," Malfoy holds up a hand, palm facing her. "We're not in class right now; speak like a normal person for once." He gives the car some gas when the light finally switches to green and she can't believe not only the lack of cars on the road, but the lack of people out at all. The lack of streetlights is haunting as it's only his yellowed headlights that cut through the evening's fog.

"What's wrong with the way that I speak?" She never thought she could be so indignant about anything in all her life as she rips her attention from the window she'd been staring out of and back to the side of his head.

"You sound as though a dictionary, thesaurus, and Speak-and-Spell had a robotic child." He screws up his face and moves his arms around in a rigid way, letting his knees take over possession of the steering wheel. "Love. Does. Not. Compute. Only programmed with great affection for… _logic…and…linguistics._ " He grins with too many teeth when his slick palms catch the steering wheel once again, and he slows down a bit, but it's sudden and Hermione's body lurches forward before she's slammed back into the seat.

"And I suppose the proper way to speak these days is in that half-arsed, fragmentary speech used on the computer, then?" She scowls at him and rubs at her neck in an overly exaggerated way and she can tell just how much he loves laughing at this, murmuring something about it not being that bad of a neck injury.

"Good Lord," he retorts. "It's called the internet, and this language of which you speak is called slang and chat. Everyone is doing it, and just because loads of people are doing it doesn't mean that it's ignorant. Things are popular for a reason, Granger." He offers her a small smile and flicks the radio on, but static is the only thing that plays.

She looks at him blankly.

Malfoy rolls his eyes as though he cannot believe the conversation he's having. "You _really_ must be as antiquated as the books you consume. It would almost be hilarious if it wasn't depressing. Were you frozen in an ice block in the eighteenth century and they only let you out a month ago? Is that what's happening?"

"You're very clever, aren't you?" Hermione looks at him appraisingly. Perhaps he isn't quite like Daphne and Pansy after all; perhaps he is looking for something different in a friend and he's trying to see if it's in her. "You don't like to show it, though. You'd rather appear as if you don't care at all."

Draco runs the tip of his tongue across his lower lip and pauses long enough to avoid her own question. "What was 'harrowing' for you tonight?" The transition back to the issue at hand is seamless and she admires just how blunt he is.

"I'm fighting with my boyfriend." She rolls her eyes and shifts her weight restlessly, drawing one of her legs over the other in the expansive space between floorboard and seat. "We had a near-nasty telephone call last night, and then I go to check my email at the library before class tonight and there Ron is. Starting on me all over again." She huffs ought a frustrated sigh, when she really wants to growl or kick something.

Perhaps Professor Lupin is correct about the beast inside of everyone…

"So, there _is_ trouble in paradise." He reaches down and twiddles with the radio, never taking his eyes off the road. "Dr. Draco is in." When he can't find anything on the radio, he punches the 'OFF' button, and takes the steering wheel back into both hands.

"That sounds like an awful daytime talk show. Which I'm sure you'd love to have."

"You've no idea how much that statement means to me." He presses his palm on his chest and looks over at her in pure glee, but there's enough sarcasm crinkled into the corners of his eyes for her to remain exasperated. "Is your boyfriend annoyed over how much time you spend with our dashing Professor Lupin?"

Draco pulls into the parking lot behind the massive building Hermione lives in and that's when she sighs roughly and answers his long-ago asked question, "My boyfriend is annoyed that I'm still in school." She's surprised she doesn't sputter in the slightest over Draco's remark about Lupin, and she doesn't even address it.

"What's he doing with _his_ life? Ron?" His interjection is laced with an implication or hope that it better be something good. He twists the key in the ignition and kills the car's engine and headlights.

"He has an okay job. He loves what he does, so I suppose that's great." Hermione opens her door after Draco has done so and then she speaks to him over the hood of his BMW. "He's a soccer coach and works in the sport's department for a community center. He barely finished undergraduate studies with me—I don't think he would have completed them without my help. But I don't care about that," she adds this on quickly and Draco knows that she's lying through stumbled words, but doesn't say anything about it. He just continues to listen as he tugs his case of beer out of the back seat and slams the door. "He thinks it's time that we ought to be on the same page about the stage of life we're in. Working with children makes him want to have some of his own. With me."

"And you're not ready for that." Draco hops upon the car's hood and leans against the windshield, digging into his case of beer, opening one, and closes his eyes, resting the beer can's mouth to his lips, but doesn't drink. He speaks against it in a tinny, muffled mutter, "You're one of those women that thinks there's more to life than starting a family."

"There's absolutely nothing wrong with wanting either or both of those things for your life." Hermione follows him and stands next to him, hands on her hips, backpack at her feet. "I've always been ambitious. There are so many things I want to do with my life before I feel ready to settle down. There's a lot of pressure; I don't know if I could be mother and scholar."

"You seem to have your life together. You've got way more going for you than anyone else our age who is here. If anyone could juggle these roles, it would be you. Why don't you give it a chance?"

"Can we talk about something else, please? This stresses me out," she covers her face with her hands and rubs briskly. When she's done she glowers at him, "Why don't _you_ give having children a chance?"

He smirks and sips from his beer. "Too young. Not ready. Waiting for the right one to come along."

"Why are those proper answers for you, but not for me?"

"What? _You're_ not with the right one?" Of course that's the part that he would catch and latch on to. He pats the empty space on the hood, and she joins him, her back against the windshield now.

Hermione bites her bottom lip thoughtfully before asking, "Can I have one of those?"

"Fresh out."

"You are not."

"I'm not, but you look like you've somewhere to be. Impatient frame, standing with a purpose, as always."

"That's just how I stand." She's glowering at him, but he smiles at her having to fight hard to suppress her own.

"Where're you off to tonight?" He studies her, interested. "And so late for a weeknight? Last I heard, you are the most boring girl who ever lived."

"Sirius Black's pub has trivia tonight."

"Not tonight. Not enough people will show up; he'll can it. He always does."

"What?"

"Too many back to school parties going on this week," Draco shrugs as though it's the simplest thing in the world and she immediately envies how everything is of such ease to him. It's infuriating, but admirable.

He digs into his case and tosses her a beer.

"Thanks," she cracks it open and takes a sip. "So, tell. I told you what's up with me, and you've already asked me enough questions as it is."

"There's nothing to tell."

"Oh, you don't really believe a know-it-all such as myself is going to believe that. You must have some kind of _something_ going on with you. We all do." She sips at her lukewarm beer and tilts it towards him. "Mm, so what is it about this place that interested you when I told you it's where I live?"

He sighs heavily and lay back onto the windshield and drapes an arm across his eyes. He starts to speak, "My parents are—" but then he stops for a spell before going on with something else that Hermione believes he wasn't going to say in the first place. "I didn't do so hot last semester and that was the final straw for my parents, so they kicked me out. I live here now. My auntie, Andromeda, owns the place. It used to be the old Black family home, but it was left to her when her parents or someone died ages ago, so she had it gutted and remodeled into apartments for students and the like. She's cut me a deal: as long as I keep my little job at the college and am actually working to do better in class, she'll let me stay here and she won't tell my parents. She's sort of the black sheep out of the lot; no one keeps tabs on her anymore, especially after what she did here." He gestures towards the building with his own beer before bringing it to his lips and sipping thoughtfully.

Hermione doesn't believe much of what he's told her. There must be something else going on—there _has_ to be. It was right there in his earlier hesitation. She thinks of the way Sirius speaks about the Malfoys that there must be something else for them to have kicked their only son out. Something much more dramatic and deep, but she won't press. At least not tonight.

Hermione rolls off the hood and hands Draco the rest of her beer so he can finish it. She grabs her bag, "I suppose I ought to drop this stuff off."

"Well…see you later, I suppose." He sounds huffy and bored once again, was though he's upset to see her go, but won't say so.

"Thanks for the ride, Draco."

"Anytime. Just…" he sits up and away from the windshield, leaning into her focus, "mind getting around by yourself. Especially at night. I know it seems safe and seems like a friendly place here, and it is during the day time. But… sometimes…people turn into real weirdos once the night comes."

"Thank you for the heads up." She doesn't put that much stock into what he's saying. If anything, he probably means that people get strange or whatever if they've been drinking too much.

"It's what I do now, apparently." He shrugs like it's nothing, but she can see the warmth reflected on his face in the little bit of light the parking lot gives them.

"Perhaps I can return this favor for you. If you're really interested in doing better this semester, you could always study with me sometime. I'll even help you out in class if you need it."

And the next of what he says is so quiet, that if her gaze wasn't intense upon him or that she was straining her ears, she wouldn't even have heard him. "Thank you, Hermione."

It's not that she doesn't want to invite Draco to go with her, she thinks, as she lay her backpack upon the armchair across from her bed. She gives Crookshanks an absentminded scratch behind the ear as she changes into a favorite fluffy hooded sweatshirt and turns the rest of the lights on in her apartment.

She just doesn't wish to hear him say anything about Professor Lupin showing up at some point, she reasons, since she's already ignored Draco's earlier remarks about him. She really doesn't want to be teased any more for the rest of the night.

Minding what Draco said about dodgy characters in the dark, she only takes her ID and apartment key with her just in case someone is in the mood to rob her. Draco made it sound like people turn into criminals once the sun sets around here, and although she's not seen anything like that to make her believe in this notion, she still trusts what he's told her—he seems to know a lot more about whatever secret underbelly of this town that may exist.

When she goes back outside, Draco is no longer drinking on his car. Well, she can't tell which one is his anymore, but she doesn't see him anywhere and the only sound and movement outside is the wind blowing through the trees. Every so often, a stray cat or squirrel will dart out and stamp over leaves on the ground with such a weight to their pressured steps that it sounds like a person ambling towards her. From these slight frights, she almost regrets taking this walk, but by this point, she is stuck half way to her apartment or Sirius's bar, so she musters up some kind of courage from somewhere and goes on with her original plan.

'Won't stay long,' she tells herself, not wanting a repeat of the previous night. 'May just pop in for a few questions, then beg off.' She really does hope that Draco is wrong about trivia night not happening.

She gets closer to the business district in the small downtown area and enjoys the gas lit lamps lining the distance of the main street and near the sidewalks. The stringed lights entwined with leftover summer plants, flowers, and hanging baskets outside of the shops glow yellow and white and look as nice as she imagined they would when she saw them unlit in the day time.

There's Sirius's bar, just a block away and she begins to feel the weight of her mental fatigue seeping into her neck and shoulders. She rubs at the side of her neck and closes her eyes, groaning slightly, when she hears a scuff of shoes on the concrete near her. She turns slightly and sees a figure come out of the shadows in the alley between the bookstore and post office. She squints at it and thinks of crossing the street to avoid this person and to heed Draco's earlier warning of the weird coming out of people in the night.

Before she can edge to the sidewalk to cross, the man comes into view, half of his face illuminated a dull orange and clammy yellow by a nearby gas lamp. She exhales slightly—it's Sirius's younger brother.

The look at each other a moment, both standing still. Hermione doesn't know what to say to him, so she thinks to just nod politely and move past him. But he steps in front of her and even though he's shorter than the other men she's met since she's been here, he still has about a head on her. He leans forward, towering over her. She backs up, closer to the alley.

"H-hello, Regulus," she's surprised she can remember his name against the panic of her quickening pulse and the throbbing boom of the blood rushing in her head and ears.

"Late to be out by yourself," he speaks quietly, brow furrowed in concern and eyes wide and innocent at this observation…but there's a force behind his voice that she doesn't care too much for. He speaks with the same carefree ease and arrogance as he did the first time they met outside the Longbottoms' store, as though he's commenting upon a triviality. What's worse is, she knows that he knows he's frightened her.

She's not quite sure what he wants from her in this moment, or where he's willing to take the conversation. She doesn't want there to be a conversation at all.

"I'm just going to…" but she doesn't finish, because part of her doesn't want him to know where she's going. But there's a part of her that does want him to know that she's expected somewhere and that she's going to be around other people. Safety in numbers and all that.

"You should be in bed, little girl. I expect you have school in the morning." Again with the casual tone, and Hermione doesn't like this one bit. She is instantly unhinged from unease at the disgusting pet name he's given her. Another way that he's infantilized her in order to force some superiority upon himself. Perhaps he's just trying to intimidate her—some strange revenge from his earlier interaction with she and Sirius, where Sirius has slightly embarrassed him.

Regulus throws a look off in the direction from where he came as though he's heard something that she missed. He takes another step and corners her away from the main sidewalk and into an uncomfortable conversation. She senses that someone else is watching them, not too far away.

"I-I'm meeting my friends."

"Nobody is out here. Everyone's at home or one of the parties. Looks like it's just the two of us tonight." He walks her further into the alley, her back stopping against the dumpster. "These are trying times. A lot of terrible things are going to happen soon. Who ever is going to protect you?"

Hermione can't find her voice to say anything at all (especially to tell him that she doesn't need protection, that she can and does fend for herself) and she trembles at his touch when he takes a loose strand of her hair and tucks it behind her ear.

"You don't need to be afraid of me, love." He gives her a hard look and drops his hand at his side. "I'm here to offer you help. A space in the Family." Hermione's thoughts run wild. She doesn't understand what he's trying to insinuate. She thinks that he's alluding to he and Sirius's family, but the way he said the word makes it sound like he's talking about something else entirely. Something that she doesn't care to know too much about. And something that Sirius was probably alluding to during their earlier interaction—the strange and unnamed things that Regulus gets up to with the Malfoys and all the people that apparently live in their manor.

His hand goes to caress her face, and keeps his palm curved against her cheek, eyes boring into hers and she trembles under his touch. "There are eyes everywhere in this town, and you can bet everything you own that Father saw you the moment you arrived. He wishes to collect you for the Family, and I've been tasked to come and fetch you."

"I'm not going anywhere," she says defiantly, chin up, jaw clenching strong in the best sneer she can muster.

She's thinking of punching him in the throat or kicking him in the scrotum to incapacitate him, when she hears the sound of a gun cocking behind Regulus's frame and a voice laced with a lethal poison,

"Let her go, Regulus." Sirius stands tall and sturdy in the darkness, clutching his handgun with a less than steady hold, but a steely rage behind his eyes and driven into his jaw and bared teeth. His hair is loose and wild around his face and his breathing is shallow as though he ran, silently, to this spot.

It's like time itself, and everyone's breath, stop simultaneously.

Regulus merely looks over his shoulder at his older brother. "Go ahead and shoot, Sirius. You'll miss. Just kill the girl, go on, that's what'll happen if you pull that trigger right now."

Regulus leans into her, pressing his face closer and closer to her throat until his face is buried in her neck and his hand goes to her waist. Hermione and Sirius share a seemingly psychic connection in a shared glance, trying to figure out what to do next when Regulus murmurs, "You will learn to love the Family."

Sirius takes a step forward, repositioning his gun, "Fuck's sake, Reg—"

A throat is cleared behind Regulus, on his other side, and then there's a hand on his shoulder, pulling him back, and a calm voice, "The lady said to let her go."

Remus Lupin pushes Regulus out of his hold and draws his arm back and busts his first two knuckles wide open on Regulus's face: one punch breaks Regulus's nose, and the other punch crashes into Regulus's teeth. The shorter man spits out gobs of blood and a piece of a tooth before he's even able to speak again.

"Oh. I get it." He's nodding nastily through his bloody mouth and nose.

Lupin shakes his fist out as though he's slammed it inside a door and its threshold instead of upon a person's mouth and nose, hissing at the sting of the broken skin. "Right. Get the fuck out of here." This comes out in a near feral growl and Hermione's stomach sinks—she's never heard anyone speak like that before; not even this tone was recognizable in Sirius's earlier malice.

"So, it's happened already, has it?" Regulus pants, his voice muffled from behind the shield of his hand holding his mouth and nose. He's bent forward slightly, resting his other hand palm planted into his thigh. He looks up at Hermione, then to Lupin, and grins through a bleeding mouth.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Lupin's voice is rough and he's panting from the bout of adrenaline that got him to this point. He's actually standing like a boxer, his fists still raised, daring Regulus to move once more.

"So there's been no imprinting, no claiming yet?"

Lupin's fists droop slightly and his face furrows in confusion at what Regulus is goading him on about.

Hermione's thoughts wildly wonder if Professor Lupin isn't threatening Regulus with the police because he, Lupin, doesn't want to get in trouble for throwing the first punch.

Sirius still has his gun aimed at his brother, holding it in his right hand, his left cradling the right to steady his aim. There's a slight tremor running up the length of his right arm. Lupin steps forward and extends his own arm as a barrier to keep Sirius behind him.

"Sirius, stay," Lupin's words are curt and there's a fire in his eyes burning brighter than the streetlight on the corner.

"That's right, Lupin. Keep your little dog on a leash. Lord knows this will be the first time you've managed it in all your life." Someone has come from the shadows further out and slides a possessive hand onto Regulus's shoulder. There's a regal and insubordinate flip of the hair by a black gloved hand, as a towering individual

makes their appearance. Regulus stands up straight and leans into the embrace.

Hermione immediately thinks of Draco when she sees the man's white-blonde (albeit, shoulder-length) hair and steely gaze. She figures this must be Draco's father, who rests his free hand on a cane (a silver cobra's head) and sneers at Sirius and Lupin. He doesn't seem to notice her at all, or he's avoiding her presence on purpose.

"Lucius," Sirius says this amicably enough, as though he's just saying hello to a slightly less than favorite acquaintance, before lowering his firearm. He slips it into the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back, and Lupin's arm returns to his side before he massages his wound with his intact hand, never dropping his gaze from Lucius or Regulus.

Sirius joins Lupin at his side and their shoulders almost touch. Sirius is tense, both fists clenched at his sides and Lupin slides his fingers around one of Sirius's wrists to steady his friend and once Sirius calms, Lupin removes his grip.

Lucius removes his gloved hand from Regulus's shoulder and instead cups Regulus's chin, tilting Regulus closer into the moonlight to examine him. "I see you've wounded my boy," Lucius is just as conversational as Sirius. They could have been talking about the weather or the price of gas.

Hermione does not see where Regulus could ever be considered a boy. Though he is not old, there is still a very worn and ragged, haggard look about him that suggests he's had a harder life than most—the bags under his eyes run deeper and more exhausted than Lupin's, and there's a near maniacal gleam in his eyes that suggests he hasn't slept in years. Yes, Regulus is younger than Sirius, but he must still be close to Malfoy's age. Hermione recalls the nasty comments Sirius has made to and about his brother. Perhaps this is just evidence of the strange relationship the younger Black brother has with the Malfoys. Is Malfoy the Father that Regulus mentioned previously?

Lucius wipes the blood from Regulus's lips with the pad of his thumb. It's a nauseating sight to behold for Hermione, for his action is done in both a paternal way, yet also with the tender touch akin to a lover's. There's something sensual in the way that Lucius's thumb lingers at the corner of Regulus's mouth and the heat shared in between their locked eyes as Regulus looks up at the taller man in a shying away, yet come-hither gaze.

Lucius returns his attention back to Sirius. "I have no doubt that the monster is responsible for this."

Hermione frowns and looks questioningly at Lupin in relation to this apparent misnomer. Lupin meets her eyes and shakes his head quickly, as though telling her, 'now is not the time.' Their attentions return to Lucius.

"And this isn't the first time you've pulled a gun on someone, is it, dear boy?" Lucius's countenance is pure malice and Sirius falters slightly under the taller man's gaze, but straightens up and answers,

"I point my gun only at those who deserve it." There is courage curled into Sirius's sour glower. His teeth are bared and in that moment, Hermione can maybe surmise why he's referred to as a dog (although, she assumed it was partially for his barking laugh, or the way that he tends to follow people around, or adore them immediately).

"Wrap this up, boy," Lucius spits suddenly at Regulus, who is both unflinching at the command and also grateful to please the older man. "And meet me at the house." He turns on his heel and retreats in the direction he came from and is gone almost instantly, as though he vanished.

Nobody speaks for a very long time, and Hermione thinks that maybe she can leave now, until Regulus is speaking again, this time, at the remaining men.

"No, I mean that it's too late for her." Regulus nods his head in Hermione's direction, speaking to Professor Lupin. When Lupin doesn't respond and avoids Hermione's presence altogether, Regulus's nasty grin and sneer is back. "Or, isn't it? No…Everyone knows you've not the sack to claim this one. We've taken bets, you kn—"

Lupin lurches forward and grabs Regulus's shirt in both hands, actually lifts him off the ground in a split second, and they're nose to nose. Lupin's breath is shaky, "If you _ever_ get near her again, I will kill you. You go tell _Father_ I said that. I will kill you, Regulus. Swear to God." Lupin lets him go, pushing him into the dumpster. Regulus's arms pinwheel as he loses his balance and crashes into the metal bin. "None of us are afraid of you. None of us are afraid of _him._ " But there is a small waver that clips at the end of his words when he points in the direction of which Lucius has retreated, and Lupin's wide, bright eyes turn watery as though he's flushed with goosebumps at the mentioning of this strange, enigmatic entity.

"You will be," Regulus pants, wiping the blood from his mouth, but all he does it smear it around. He steadies himself once more. "You will be, all of you." He points at Sirius, Lupin, then Hermione. "Before too long."

"Yeah, what's your lot gonna do, then, eh?" Sirius drawls from behind Lupin, who has turned his back to Regulus and is trying to control his breathing. "Orgy us all to death?"

Regulus says nothing and there's another very pregnant pause, much like the one before, and Hermione thinks of escaping once again. She is damning her hesitation, blaming it on the inherent curiosity that has always run through her veins, even against good sense.

"What are you doing with those people, Regulus?" Sirius's voice is gruff and he runs a hand through his hair, a slight gleam of desperation dancing behind his hardened gaze aimed at his younger brother. One of his shoulders slump after he extends his arm in Lucius's direction, then it slaps back upon his denim clad upper thigh. "I used to think you were better than them; I used to think you were better than a lot of things, but I suppose I stand corrected."

Lupin is pacing slightly, wiping at his mouth with his fine hand, his bloody hand pressed into his hip. His eyes flit over to the others every now and again and he rolls his neck in extreme impatience and annoyance. Hermione's sure he's gritting his teeth in this moment.

"The Family does far more for me than blood ever did, dear brother. You'll soon see." He turns his attention to Hermione and gives her an appraising up and down, "I hope you see, as well. There's nothing these two can do for you that we can't do better. You'll need to make a choice soon. In the mean time, I bid you adieu."

And like that, he's gone, much in the same way as Lucius Malfoy had seemingly disappeared into thin air.

"Hermione," Sirius starts, placing his hand gently on the small of her back, leading her into his microbrewery (which, after earlier conversations with Lupin, now looks more like a dingy old pub that was slightly renovated instead of something far more interesting and fetching, as she previously saw it through rose-tinted glasses). "Before anything else, you must understand that there has been a feud between that family and everybody-fuckin'-else for as long as any of us can remember."

"That is absolutely asinine. How can something like that go on?" She rounds on Lupin, "And you. How could you have done all of that, but not one of you called the police?"

Lupin tries his hardest not to snort at her. "Miss Granger, I would ask you if you are serious right now, but as you still don't quite grasp how things work here, I feel it's my duty and obligation to inform you that the Malfoys have owned this town since its inception. Somewhere far enough down their ancestry, there was a man who loaned the town's founders money and the lumber from his mill to quite literally build this town. They have stakes in each place of business, along with the power to bankrupt them."

Hermione shakes her head as though she doesn't believe what he's telling her, but then again. Why would he, or Sirius for that matter, lie to her? "This doesn't sound real."

"I assure you, it is. And I beg you to understand that not only is Lucius Malfoy on the Board of Trustees, but he oversees every transaction, every cent, that goes through the college. He schmoozes with any and all benefactors. Without him, and the 'work' that his past family members did for this town, there would be nothing here, and the Malfoys would have up and left with their own private fortune ages ago. This place would be a ghost town and not the academic hub it's become."

Hermione is visibly seething and Lupin gives her a pitying glance as he continues. "As terrible as it sounds, we don't have to kneel down before them and kiss their boots to thank them for allowing us to do what we love when it comes to our actual lives. For the most part, they stick to themselves. Lucius is away often enough, managing various side businesses he tends to keep far away from here in attempts to pollute other towns and cities with his ire."

"What was all that talk about families?" Hermione asks pointedly as she glares at Lupin, trying to suss out an answer devoid of any lie or fabrication.

Lupin's eyes flick over to Sirius who is struggling with opening a wine bottle. Hermione notices it's the one that she likes so well.

Sirius brandishes the wine bottle opener, pointing it at Hermione. "I told you it's some weird sex thing! I've said for ages that they're some kind of cult or that they're in some kind of massive open relationship. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but they way they go about it, they always try to snatch up newcomers. Most of them don't stay for long _because_ of how they act when they're 'recruiting'."

"And most of us have been fine with whatever happens because as long as they leave us all alone, nobody cares what they do." Lupin shrugs, as though it's the easiest thing in the world to understand, but Hermione is still fuming. Perhaps it is something she could also learn to live with, given enough time being here.

"This is wealth and privilege at its finest," she huffs out and both men agree with her, nodding fervently.

"Didn't say you have to like it or agree with it; it's just easier when you can ignore them." Sirius shrugs, busying himself with pouring them each a glass. "Believe you me, kitten, I've known them all my life. They absolutely wither without the attention."

"A lot of things are easier when you have the privilege to be complacent. Doesn't mean it's right." Hermione snaps. She sips from her wine and looks at Lupin over her glass. "Why did he call you a monster?"

Hermione expects him to sputter and stutter over an answer, but he instead sighs easily enough. "I trust Sirius has told you that none of us got along in our younger years? When we were in school together?"

Hermione nods vaguely, squinting at him, showing that she's not easily going to believe whatever he's about to tell her.

He doesn't break eye contact as he continues, lazily swirling his wine around in his own glass, but not drinking from it. "I attacked Regulus when we were children. He was saying terrible things about Sirius…had Lucius and a few of Lucius's friends jump Sirius one day after school when he was alone. When I heard that Regulus orchestrated the entire thing, I stalked him home after school one day and just…blacked out. I went berserk on him. He had to go to the hospital."

Hermione stops drinking her wine and looks at Lupin incredulously. It seems severely unlikely that someone so kind and gentle would have it in them to attack someone like that, but Hermione had to agree with what Sirius was saying as he backed his friend's story up,

"When you're stepped all over from a young age and bullied and bottle everything in, it can't rightly be too surprising when that person finally snaps." Sirius drains his glass with a slight smirk. "Nobody touched Remus ever again, and nobody said anything to him after that." He adds on somewhat lamely, "And they just called him a monster after that whole fiasco."

"There's still the occasional harassment or backhanded snarky quip," Lupin waves his hand, brushing that part of Sirius's statement away. "Tonight was the first night in over twenty years that I lost control like that."

"You were very restrained," Hermione blurts out and both men look at her, surprised that she would say something like that after all but condemning the all around bad behavior that just occurred. "There was something gentlemanly about it all. You did what you had to do. You could have taken it a step further, but you didn't. There's something admirable in knowing when to stop. Especially concerning something you didn't want to do in the first place."

Lupin busies himself with his wine, and Sirius knows exactly what his friend is thinking as he watches his eyes. Remus _didn't_ want to stop. In fact, that is the most alive Remus has felt in ages. It thrilled him to throw that first punch. Sirius is so immersed in Remus's body language and face, that he doesn't hear Hermione's question until Remus frowns, waves at Sirius, and points at Hermione.

"She asked why you have a gun."

"Used to be a cop." Sirius shrugs like it's nothing, but Hermione sees a wave of agony shadow over and pass his features. It's small, but it's absolutely enough to tell her that it is in fact not nothing. It is everything.

They finish the rest of the wine and Lupin stalks off into the night. He doesn't say if he's going home or going to sleep in his office again, but as Sirius stares at his friend's retreating back, he sense that he probably isn't going home.

"I can walk you home again tonight, if you like?" Sirius looks down at Hermione after he locks the shop up, and she nods in agreement.

They get to her door and she fumbles with the lock and asks him in a near-whisper. "How did you know?"

He leans in, standing behind her, his chin hovering above her shoulder. "Sorry?"

"How did you know to come outside? I was far from the shop, I never shouted, I never told you when I was coming to the shop." Her hand has turned the knob, but she still hasn't opened the door.

He places a gentle hand on her shoulder, to ease her into the protection and comfort of her small apartment and she obliges, while he answers. "Sometimes, I just know things about other people. Sometimes, I know what someone needs. And sometimes, I can hear you without you ever having said a thing."

She wants to say something to him. To ask him what he means; to tell him that's ridiculous, that things like that and people like that aren't real; to ask him if that's how he knew Ron and Ginny's names. But she doesn't say any of these things and instead heads to the bathroom to change into pajamas, telling him he can make himself at home.

She doesn't have class or any fellowship duties the next day, so Sirius comes home with her. She doesn't mind him lounging in her armchair with his legs impudently flung over the side as he tells her random, meaningless stories about his childhood while she settles into her bed, amused by his late-night animation and entertainment.

Once he's seen she's gone to sleep, he trudges over to the switch on the wall and flicks all the lights off. He grabs the nearly empty wine bottle left on the coffee table and curls into the chair again, sipping idly from the bottle as he watches her sleep. Her bandy legged orange cat with the squashed face is curled at the foot of the bed and watches Sirius with wary, yellow eyes, its tail flicking back and forth every so often, as though intrigued (but not threatened) by Sirius's presence.

Sirius shrugs out of his denim jacket with slight difficulty and drapes it across his front as though it were a throw blanket or woven tapestry lifted from the walls. He rests his head against the chair's back, and pulls the wine bottle to his chest, and drifts off to sleep when it looks like the young woman isn't going to be startled in any way for the rest of the night.

They sleep until noon and Hermione throws her house slipper at Sirius's head (missing him) for letting them sleep that late. Sirius is sure the cat is laughing at him for being scorned.

After that, it becomes a habit for Sirius to walk her home and crash on her chair, even though she knows it must be terribly uncomfortable for him. He even shows up on campus from time to time on his motorbike after her later classes and gives her lifts home. Ever since this arrangement began, she'd not had any more problems with strangers; and slowly, slowly, did she force the recent memory of Regulus and Lucius into the depths of her subconscious where all repressed memories reside.

She begins to make herself think of it as a bad dream.

Professor Lupin makes himself believe it never happened at all, as he avoids her for the rest of the week. Even though she spots him across campus several times wearing her hoodie that is starting to look quite worn (or slept) in.

X X X X

On Saturday, Hermione wakes extra earlier to see that Sirius is no longer where he was the night before. He'd let himself out, locking the door behind him with the spare key they had made at the hardware store the other day.

Hermione packs her school bag full of enough items to keep her busy through the late afternoon and heads to Luna's family's coffeeshop, as was requested of her earlier in the week.

Hermione relishes the walk, for most of the humidity and left over hazy heat has gone away and with it came the fresh winds and clean gusts of autumn turning everything fire red and orange once again. She can stand outside in this moment for the rest of her life, she thinks, as she shoulders her bag more sturdy about her and as she slips a hand into her hoodie's pouch to make sure her wallet is indeed still there.

The coffee shop is absolutely packed, and most of the faces seated at chairs and tables both inside and outside belong to individuals she's seen at the library and milling about on campus, though they're people she doesn't know directly.

She orders her bottomless cup of coffee from an older blonde man at the counter and he is just as airy and dreamlike as Luna, who is not here yet. Hermione expects this man to be Luna's father—she would be surprised if he isn't.

After thanking him, Hermione finds a rickety, tiny table near a back corner that barely accommodates herself, though there is another chair across from her at the other side of the table. She sits her backpack in this empty chair and opens her massive literary theory textbook up to the section on postmodernity for Professor Lupin's class. She opens a fresh notebook, a fountain pen poised upon the blank page. She scratches the date into the margin and then digs into the textbook, underlining key phrases and definitions, frowning slightly at things she doesn't quite agree with.

So immersed in her work is she that she doesn't recognize someone is standing near her until they clear their throat and she looks up at them, startled.

The boy from Sirius's bar the other night is grinning down at her, tugging awkwardly at the string dangling from his sweatshirt's hood. His hand then goes to his untidy black hair as he grips at it nervously.

"Hermione? It's Harry from the other night. May I sit with you?" He glances at the bustling coffee shop behind him and she follows his gaze, seeing that the line is out through the door and people are impatient with waiting for chairs to open up. "Everywhere else is full."

"Oh! Hello, Harry. Yes, of course. Please." She blunders, moving to remove her backpack from the chair so that he can sit down. She places her bag under the table in between her feet as he sits down with another grin and she notices just how charming this young man is. "How are you?" She feels that the question is too eager and she doesn't want him to think that she's forcing the conversation in any way—she just genuinely wants to know. He has an absolute likable aura about him.

"Spectacular. Uncle Sirius told me that I made you accidentally drink too much the other night, and I've been looking around for your to see if you're better now. Although, Sirius is known for his talent of and taste for over exaggeration."

"He's such an interesting man."

"He's something all right. Anyway, I'm really glad to see you. You've not been around lately."

Hermione offers him a small smile and launches into an explanation about how busy classes got once she went through them all and about how much homework she has, as well as all of the professors that she's helping for her fellowship.

"Uncle Remus told me that they have you basically clocking in overtime," Harry sniffs at this, pulling a face to show her just how unacceptable this is. "He felt terrible about asking you to help him with his research project."

Hermione blushes slightly, yet she is keenly interested in the fact that Professor Lupin speaks to people in his personal life about her. It really makes her feel like a much better student than she sometimes thinks herself to be. It also makes her feel better that he must not totally be ignoring her if he's thought enough about her to mention her to Harry.

"Is he really your uncle?"

"Nah, he's like Sirius; best mates with my dad since they were children. Been around all my life. Great bloke, Remus. A bit boring sometimes, the way he rambles on about texts, though." Harry grins once more before taking a tentative sip of his coffee. He looks at her very seriously. "I hope you don't mind me. I'm going to be here all day. I just ordered the unlimited coffee."

She mocks his serious face, "I hope you don't mind becoming best friends over this, because I've done the same."

"Excellent!" And the vibrance in his smile and behind his eyes shows Hermione that he really means what he's just said and she finds that so refreshing. "Don't mind me, though. I see you're quite busy. I thought I'd just do a bit of reading. I don't wish to interrupt anything. Pretend I'm not here," he says this hastily enough, busying himself with the sugar packets on their table.

She wants to tell him that it would be hard to pretend that she is here by herself at all; the loud conversations and music blaring from the shop's radio all but drowns out their own conversation. Hermione looks around the shop in hopes of seeing Luna so that she may say hello to her when she needs to go get another coffee refill, but she doesn't see her. She thinks she sees Draco Malfoy across the room, but if it is indeed him, his blonde head is buried so deep inside a book that she doesn't dare approach and disturb him on her way to go get another refill when the time comes.

She holds up her hand to stop Harry in his tracks. "Please forgive me for my curiosity. I've been told that I'm quite the bibliophile. What are you reading?"

Now it is time for Harry to blush as he reaches into the satchel he's carried in with him to show her the stack of comic books he's brought. "I know they're not quite literature, but—"

"Please," she cuts him off without meaning to be rude. "Anything that interests you is absolutely worth the read. Too many times, I've heard people say that they don't like to read. I'm a firm believer in that they're the kind of people who just haven't found what quite speaks to them yet."

He lets out a sigh of relief. "I'm so glad you said that. I've been criticized far too often for the things I enjoy reading."

"I promise you that there will be seminars taught about comic books and the graphic novel at the university level before too long."

He cocks his head to the side, keen interest shimmering in his eyes. "You really think so?"

"Absolutely. They are like counterculture narratives."

"Wish I'd started college in the future, then." He says this gloomily as he flicks one of the thin books open with such a flourish that she is immediately reminded of Draco and his magazines.

"What did you go to college for if you don't mind my asking?"

"Political Science. Thought I'd get into law or something like that to be a police officer like my dad. Thought I'd fancy to eventually get into local politics. But, I took the job at Sirius's shop after I graduated, and it's pretty good money and good hours. I get to work somewhere I like while I get to do things that I enjoy in my free time."

"Like what?" She's still listening, even though she's taking notes on her paper about what she's reading.

"I'd like to actually make my own comics. I know it's stupid, but I figured there's a market for it and why not go for it since it's something that I enjoy? And when I'm not doing that, I'm playing soccer at the parks or listening to music. I really want to learn an instrument."

Hermione feels a wave of jealousy as she listens to all the things he gets to do outside of school. While school is her passion itself, she really does hope to find some free time in the future to figure out what she enjoys apart from research and academics.

They're silent for a while as she works through her chapter and writes out a list of discussion questions she'd like to bring up to the class. She beats away intrusive thoughts of people groaning at her that she's doing far too much and how can she just not sit and read the chapter like everyone else has?

"I'm about to go get a refill." Harry says after he's finished one of his books. "Want me to get you one?"

"Oh, yes, please. That's very sweet of you." Hermione hands him her chipped red mug when he stands up.

Harry turns to head back to the service counter, then his shoulders slump and he groans. "Ugh."

"What is it?" Hermione asks, brow furrowed, expecting yet another mile long line. When she doesn't see it, she is actually confused as to what's caused her new friend's disgust.

"Malfoy," Harry says the name as though it were a nasty curse word or gross name of an infectious disease.

"He's not that bad." Hermione can't believe how quickly this declaration of the tall blonde boy at the counter is, and wonders if he would say the same for her; especially if someone like Daphne or Pansy said her name equally as distastefully as Harry said Draco's name.

"Uncle Remus says I'm blinded by hatred and I should just give him a chance." Harry shrugs, gripping both coffee cups in his hands, casting a baleful look over towards Malfoy, who is chatting up Luna's father at the counter.

"I think you should listen to Remus…er, Professor Lupin." Hermione stutters upon his professional prefix, but Harry doesn't seem to notice as he watches Malfoy grin at Mr. Lovegood's hearty chuckle.

"Malfoy was the worst when we were growing up," Harry explains, as though that answers everything, particularly where his distaste is concerned.

Hermione thinks of Lupin and Sirius talking about their past experiences with Draco's father and how that is enough to condemn the man. Though, Hermione is sure, a lot of it is indeed warranted.

Harry sits back down in his seat and leans forward, his knees banging into her own during this needful and gossipy admission. "His family runs a cult."

However he wanted her to react, it is clear that she isn't giving him what he expected.

"A lot of people say a lot of things about of a lot of people," she says this easily in a sigh, flipping through her book to another chapter to work on. But the truth is, she doesn't want to hear any theories about who or what the Malfoy family is. "I really like Draco. We've spent some time together. He's not that bad."

Harry nods curtly. He's obviously embarrassed about the way that he's reacted to a person who hasn't even come up to them and invaded their space.

"Harry?"

"Yes?" He hasn't noticed that he's taken up watching her work and he wonders if she's about to tell him off.

"Why does Sirius hate Professor Snape?"

"Ugh, that prat." But he calms when Hermione shoots him a warning glance. "Sorry." He glances out the window to collect his thoughts. "From how it was alway told to me…Snape ran with the crowd Malfoy's father always collected. They always harassed my father and Sirius," Hermione believes this to be the half truth, "and one time that extended to my mother. I'm not really sure what happened there, what he did or said to her, but the next time Sirius came across Snape, Sirius thought that he would scare Snape with his father's gun. My dad found this out last minute or didn't know Sirius was going to go through with this 'prank', whatever. Anyway, Dad sort of tackled Sirius to the ground to get the aim off of Snape, and the gun went off, hit a tree, and that was it."

Hermione wants to tell him that she doesn't believe most of what he's told her, or that there must be more to the story, but she doesn't. Because this is the truth that Harry knows—this is what Sirius and James have told him throughout the years.

They don't say anything else, and Harry only goes up to the counter for their refills when Draco leaves the shop for the day. Draco smiles at Hermione when he passes by her window while Harry waits on Mr. Lovegood at the counter.

On Wednesday, Hermione has a bit of free time before her evening class with Professor Lupin, so she tries to give Ron a call, even though it's something she's been dreading. She never responded to his last email, and she is painfully aware of just how long it's been since they talked on the phone. Although, telephone calls work both ways and he could have easily picked his up and rang her if he really wanted to, which he hadn't.

She's about to hang up when someone answers. It isn't Ron, and it isn't his father like the last time.

"Ginny!" Hermione exclaims, genuinely pleased to speak to her, as she hadn't the last time she called.

"Hey, Hermione." But her normally good humored tone is dulled down by some kind of exhaustion.

"What's up?" She asks tentatively, a nervous guilt tugging at her stomach, thinking Ginny's angry with her. She doesn't see how—though Hermione is basically avoiding Ron, she has sent significantly more correspondence to Ginny.

"Ah, just tired. I didn't get that job I applied to a couple of weeks ago."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that, Ginny."

"It's fine," Ginny says briskly, "I've loads of other applications in at other places. I'll just stick to the cinema gig until I hear from somewhere better. Won't kill me."

Ginny is a great writer and has spent the last year and a half building up her portfolio and sending it out to different news media outlets, hoping to get taken on as a writer or editor. She also works part time as assistant manager at their local cinema, which is fine for the most part she always says: it isn't that difficult and she always has the energy before or after shifts to work on her writing.

"If it makes you feel better," Hermione offers, "one of my friends here works a part time gig at a bar while he works on his own illustrations for comic books until something in that field works out for him."

"Oh, Harry?"

Hermione actually starts over this. "Yeah, how did you know?"

"Ron talks about him sometimes. He's interested in meeting your new friends." She snorts over this. "I actually think he's a bit jealous that you spend a lot of time with a lot of blokes."

Hermione rolls her eyes at this and gets angry at herself for doing so: it was truly an awful habit she's picked up from Sirius. "I don't know how that's any different from him spending most of his free time with all the girls he works with."

"Oh, yeah. They're over here all the time," Ginny says this dismissively. "But you know. It's all about that macho guy thing. It's always different when a girl does something that a guy does. Ugh, boys." Hermione can see Ginny shaking her head and even rolling her eyes over this. Hermione also thinks if there's anyone who is stuck with a ton of guy, it's Ginny and her mother. "Will we ever have a conversation that doesn't involve one of these idiots?" Ginny sighs, exasperated.

"I don't think so."

Pretty much the same things happen for the next several weeks: she goes to class, she assists professors with their research, she tutors and studies with Draco, she has coffee with Harry on Saturdays, and she spends far too much time with Sirius when any of their other friends don't have the time to be around them.

In the moments that she has to herself, she sends emails to Ron and makes plans on their instant messaging chat room to schedule telephone calls. Conversations are civil, but cautious. Nothing too serious is ever brought up, and she loathes talking to him for thirty minutes at a time about soccer or the weather, or complaints about the new boy that his sister is dating. Rarely does she bring up how she's doing in her program; but she does talk to him a lot about Sirius, Draco, and Professor Lupin. She brings Harry up the most often: Ron seems to be the most interested in Harry, as they have very similar interests.

He is less interested in hearing about her weird teacher, some random older man who owns a bar, and some random rich brat failing out of his degree program. Hermione wonders if Ron feels threatened or jealous about the other three: they seem to provide some sort of support he never bothered figuring out to give her. He'd never tell her that he is jealous in anyway—it's more of a game to see if she can figure it out on his body language and petulant cues. She doesn't think Ron considers any of this. She agrees with Ginny's idea that it has more to do with a fragile masculine ego.

Before Hermione knows it, it's Wednesday and the middle of September, and her birthday is coming up on Sunday. She's totally forgotten about her birthday until she goes into The Black Dog for a plate of chips to help her through a particularly long and nasty chapter of reading for her linguistics seminar, when Sirius stops by her table to show her a hand-drawn invitation to her birthday party.

The Black Dog is still going through aesthetic renovations. They've put up eerie, yet really cool ivy along the exposed brick walls. An old, rickety pool table now crowds the far back, along with a pinball machine with a large depiction of David Bowie, and also The Twilight Zone. More artwork and old maps adorn the wooden walls. Lights have been strung up on the ceiling, and there have been whispers of a disco ball in the future. An older, yet refurbished, looking jukebox has replaced the transistor radio in a far off corner and for the past week, Sirius and Harry have refused to play anything but the Velvet Underground or Lou Reed. And all the tables have a layer of soft glass on the tops, with vintage photos of what the building looked like before, along with old timey postcards fused into collages under the glass.

"That looks great, Sirius!" She smiles at him, referring to the invitation, when he slides into her booth, sitting opposite her, and helps himself to her chips. "But my birthday is the nineteenth, not the eighteenth."

Harry is tending bar at the moment and running food to tables, while training a new employee: Hermione's classmate, Neville, who is doing quite well with getting the hang of what Harry is showing him. The bar is always almost empty during the lunch hour, apart from a small table of students (who are regulars). Sirius hopes to fix this by adding more food items to the menu and starting some lunch specials to bring more people in at this time of day.

"I know that, love." Sirius swipes too much ketchup onto the chip and taps upon the invitation laying on the table in between them. "Just thought a party on Saturday sounded better than a Sunday. More people'll show up." He barks out a laugh at the scowl she gives him at the mention of 'more people'. "Plus, we can party extra hard at midnight!"

She shakes her head at his enthusiasm. It's as though he's preparing for his own birthday. She takes the invitation from him to give it a better look. "Did you do these yourself?" Drawn on the invitations are a cartoonish version of her face, and all of the words and details about the party are written in a fine, looping calligraphy, woven into the strands of her hair.

"'Course not. Harry did. In fact, he's the one who designed the coasters I handed out back on the night we met."

Hermione is quite impressed by Harry's talent and looks at the picture a bit longer until Sirius's palm slaps upon her textbook.

"Get ahead in your work, kitten. Your party's gonna be a proper bash, and you'll be too hungover to work on anything in the days that follow."

"Please go away, Sirius," she jokes, shooing him off.

He gives her a scandalized look, stands, and takes her plate of chips away with him, eating from it as he follows Harry and Neville around the bar, barking out comedic orders ('this is a five-star establishment of fine dining, you must always bow to the patrons after serving them!').

Harry flicks a martini olive at Sirius to shut him up.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter VI

**Now a Best AU nominee for the 2017 Marauder Medal from the Shrieking Shack Society!

Chapter Summary: In which Ron comes to visit, Remus has a serious talk with Sirius, and we see the first part of Hermione's birthday party. Some Jily thrown in there, too.

A/N: I apologize for the day delay. I've been quite ill with the flu since my last update. I hope this chapter is to your liking. It may be a bit off—I wrote most of it while on some serious severe cold/flu medicine. As always, thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read, favorite, follow, and even review this piece. A special thank you to guests who have left reviews that I am unable to respond to and thank you personally. Another very special thank you to Taylor (guest)—I really appreciate you taking the time to write me such long, well thought out responses since the beginning of this piece.

Disclaimer: As always, all recognizable things belong to J.K. Rowling.

Disclaimer II: I do not claim to be a tarot expert. The way Sirius reads Remus is just based on past understandings and interpretations of the cards when I used to be interested in this kind of thing.

xXx

When Hermione gets back to her apartment, a tall, broad-shouldered and slim-fit young man with shaggy red hair is leaning against the wall next to her door. His arms are crossed over a maroon soccer jersey that clashes horribly with his hair and black shorts that ride just a bit too high on his thigh. His socks stretch almost to his knees and his black Adidas Sambas are all but falling apart.

"Ron," she sputters when she gets to her door, and drops her key ring on the floor. Her jaw has dropped and she stares at him in disbelief.

"Hermione," he echoes her surprised tone with a grin and stoops to snatch her keys off the ground. He holds them out to her, dangling by the loop hanging off his finger. He gives her a crooked smile, his blue-green eyes shining.

She takes the keys and thanks him, returning his smile. She unlocks the door, keys still in the door, but they stay in the hall when she asks, "What are you doing here?"

She's never lingered in the hall like this, but still doesn't find it as strange as he does that they're having this conversation outside of the privacy of her small apartment.

"I'm yours for a week," he says this brightly, beaming at her. But he looks tired and his smile doesn't quite meet his eyes. The dark splotches around his eyes and upon the fair skin on his face worries her slightly and she wants to ask him if he's getting enough rest. Perhaps he's been partying into the later hours again. Ginny _has_ said that he has people over all the time. His smile falters when she shows lack of a reaction from being so deep in thought. "What? Aren't you happy?" His shoulders slump when he frowns. "I took off for _you_."

Hermione doesn't like the way that he's said this—it's like she's begged him to do this or something and is now exasperated that he's here. She hates when he does things like this, but she doesn't think he does it on purpose. It's probably just some- thing to do with how out of touch he can be sometimes.

"I wish you would have told me you were going to come, Ron. I could have cleaned up a bit." She chews at the bottom of her lip and thinks to add, 'and I could have mentally prepared for you, too,' but doesn't.

His red soccer duffle bag with his last name stitched in a white, looping script lay at his feet and he bends his knees to grab the strap, shouldering the bag. "Bloody hell, Hermione. You must remember what my room always looks like. Then again, you've not been home in a bit."

'Until your Mum cleans it for you, no doubt,' she thinks, but again, doesn't say to him. And she chooses to ignore the quip about her not being home, going the more civil route and tries to be more welcoming. "I _am_ happy to see you, Ron. But a whole week? Was it really okay for you to take off like that?"

"Yeah," he shrugs like it's nothing, "the center is about to close for a bit of a fall break. Long weekend. They'll be out on Monday and Tuesday. I'll leave from here Tuesday night, be back for work in the morning."

She's gotten so used to her daily and nightly routine that she doesn't even know how to respond to this. A whole week of Ron living with her? The most they'd ever done is spent the night in each others' dorm rooms, or she'd stayed with him at his family's house (when their parents weren't home, like they were still a couple of teenagers or something), or he'd stay at her's when she had her own small apartment back home.

What is he supposed to do when she has class and fellowship research hours to pull? Stay in her apartment all day? Should she give him her apartment key so he can come and go as he pleases? Will he follow her to campus every day and then just wait out in the library (that's a laugh) until she's finished for the day? Will Sirius and Draco not be welcome over while Ron's here? Would Ron even want them here? He doesn't care to hear about them over the phone, so why should seeing them in person be any different?

All of these things, she's thinking of in rapid succession and all at once, and she's so overwhelmed that all she can blurt out at him is, "I have a small bed," when she opens the door and he follows her inside, shutting and locking the door behind him.

"Never stopped us before," he chuckles, sitting his bag down.

He steps behind her after she lay her backpack on Sirius's armchair, wrapping his arms around her, pulling her back into his front. He stoops to give her a lingering kiss on her neck. She shudders against him and she feels him smile into her skin. "It's been a while. Perhaps we could..."

He does this every time they've ever done anything physical: he suggests sex acts by never fully naming them or completing his thought or request. She rolls her eyes (again, in such a Sirius fashion that she really could slap him and herself for developing such and impudent habit) and is glad that he can't see her do this.

She pulls herself away from him. "I'm sorry, Ron. I've got a lot of reading to get through for my class this evening."

He furrows his brow. "What? You have class at night?"

She's thankful that she has Professor Lupin's class this evening. She'll stop at Sirius's shop afterwards while on her way home to tell him about Ron being in town and ask him not to come around this week just to avoid any jealous melt downs.

Sirius comes over most evenings after he's locked up the brewery. He usually brings a growler of something she particularly loves and they (at least Sirius does) drink most of it. Only until very recently has Professor Lupin begun joining them. He never stays for long, but each time he comes along, his visits linger an extra few minutes.

When he first showed up, he would stand politely next to Sirius who stretched out like a heathen in his armchair. Lupin refuses a seat every time one is offered to him, claiming that he has sat all day at work, but Hermione knows this is a lie—she passes by his door many times, and is with him often enough to witness him standing and pacing while he reads. But he did sit last night when the three of them played a ridiculous card game made up by Sirius, and Hermione has wondered what that meant all day.

Hermione can tell just how much Lupin struggles with juggling roles around her and with straddling the space between professor and friend (of a friend). In fact, Hermione wouldn't call him a friend. She isn't quite sure what they are when they see each other outside of class. To be honest, she thinks them colleagues—he's even referred to her as such (except when she has his class). But even then, that isn't right. And every so often, she hears echoes of his threat (vow, really) to kill Regulus if he ever touched her again. But, perhaps he's just the kind of person who would protect any- one.

She hadn't put their used glasses in the sink from the night before and she noticed that Professor Lupin has left his wristwatch on the table. He has the habit of taking it off every time he sits down and places it in front if him so he can glance at it like a clock instead of staring at his wrist, which he thinks is rude. He does it in class to stay on time especially because some of the rooms don't have clocks or they don't have batteries. She's surprised he's forgotten something that he seems to love so well. Sirius leaves things behind all the time—she's about ready to get a shelf for him.

She has no idea how long she's been in thought until Ron's voice breaks her out of her reverie.

Ron raises an eyebrow at the drinking glasses. "Have a party last night?"

"No just a couple of...friends over." She goes to gather the glasses, stacking them into one another and takes the short steps to her tiny kitchenette and drops them into the sink. She'll wash them later.

"Anyone I know?" His arms are crossed again and she cannot believe this is happening. That he's about to start. That he's about to be surprised that she has male friends—the male friends she mentions to him every time they talk. Now she's sure he doesn't listen to her at all. He had just now been surprised about her evening class, which she mentions to him frequently.

She balks at the way he's worded this question: there's no way he personally knows anyone in this town. He wants her to mention someone unfamiliar to him just so he can start a row about her keeping parts of her life from him.

"Well, one is my friend and the other is his friend." For some reason Hermione can't drag the words 'my professor' out as a pool of warm guilt spread through her stomach as she just now realizes how inappropriate their nightly meetings are, even though they do nothing more than talk and they are never without Sirius.

Ron doesn't say anything, just holds onto a faint flicker of a scowl and in this moment, Hermione feels an intense surge of dislike for him and a very blatant hatred directed towards his spotty facial hair in what is an attempt to grow a beard. "Whose is this, then?" He frowns as he reaches for Lupin's watch.

Hermione beats him to it as she snatches it gracefully and goes to put it on her wrist, fumbling with the straps and latch.

"I don't _ever_ remember you wearing that." He stands closer to her and tries to take her wrist into his hand to get a better look at it but she shuffles out of his embrace and finally secures it upon her wrist. It's face is large against her small wrist, and it's loose, so she slides the face to the bottom of her wrist to where just the strap is visible on her.

"It's old. I ran into it when I was picking up to move. It was shoved way in the back of my desk drawer." She's surprised herself with how easy the lie is and how smoothly it rolls off her tongue without any hitches or hiccups at all.

"It's nice," he says, but she can hear just how much he doesn't mean that at all. "Looks old as balls, though. Looks a bit like a bloke's. You sure its yours?" His eyes are squinted slightly as he scans her face for any trace of fabrications or deceit.

She realizes Ron has caught something that is off and he's giving her a chance to tell the truth. She looks at the watch. She hasn't tightened it properly and the face of it is heavy on the tiny knobby part of her wrist bone that lines up to her thumb. It is a little on the smaller size for a watch for a man, and even though the face is big on her, it fits her comfortably though a little clunky. "It's my watch, Ron. I'm sorry that you haven't memorized every piece of jewelry or possession I own."

Ron drops it, but still gives her a wary look. And she now knows he knows she's lying, but more than anything he wants to know why she's lying. So he pushes her onto something else, but still related. "Who was here last night?"

"I told you about them. Just some people I met at that cocktail party when I first got here."

Hell, even Draco comes over sometimes when they don't go to the coffee shop or library to study together. To anyone else, she appears to have far too many men in her life. Daphne and Pansy have brought this up only every single time she's come across them and Daphne has taken to watching Hermione all too closely anytime before, during, and after the evening class they have together with Professor Lupin. She'll have to try to catch him before it starts so she can give him his watch back. God forbid Daphne or Pansy see her wearing it. Hermione groans internally at the thought.

She prays the conservative old lady down the hall, Dolores, doesn't say anything to Ron on his way out about Hermione's supposed harem that frequents her apartment into the late hours of the night. It isn't fair the way the lady watches her with con- tempt when Hermione crosses paths with her at the mailboxes or the front door. Hermione wishes to yell at her that she and her friends all work or have class all day, so evening time is the most convenient in which they are all able to get together. Not that it's any of her damn business, anyway.

"Sirius." Hermione finally answers, painfully aware of just how long it took her to answer him. She also winces at how she's done this the entire time he's been here.

"The bloke who works at the _bar_?" Ron grimaces. It's a look that tells her some- thing like 'surely you can do much better than that', but she can't tell if he's implying that in a way that one chooses friends or lovers.

"It's a microbrewery, Ronald." For whatever reason, this makes it sound much better to her, especially because it _is_ a bar (even though it tends to be a slightly manky one at times). "And he owns it." Yes, that makes it better...or maybe worse. She frowns. Hermione feels like Crookshanks has agreed with her in this matter, as he glares at Ron in solidarity with her.

"Right." But he doesn't seem to believe her at all, and she now knows that he is not about to be without a barrage or follow-up questions. "Then who else? There's a third glass." His head jerks towards the kitchenette where she's put the glasses.

"That boy who works the welcome desk in the department. You know. Draco. The one who studies with me sometimes." Again, this comes out so easily like her declaration about the watch.

She's sure he believes this. She definitely complains (in good humor) about Draco enough that she hopes this is going to end the conversation. Other than feeling like she spends an inappropriate amount of time with men who are not her boyfriend, she really hates the way that she's feeling shamed for having friends at all.

Plus, on top of that, she adores them and does not wish to share them with Ron.

He is being territorial and will in no way appreciate them or the sense of community they have given her for better or for worse. And it really isn't fair that she can't have friends of the other gender, when Ron has just as many (if not more) than she does and she's never said a thing about it, although she's always been quite jealous of one named Lavender who always seemed to have fancied Ron quite a bit.

"You told me you don't like him. Last I heard he's a right prat." Ron scowls at Crookshanks when he meows meanly at him and his tone.

"One of the professors has asked me to tutor him." And it is true. Draco comes home with her after Professor Lupin's seminar each week and she helps him with his vocabulary flashcards and listens to his ideas for the research paper they must hand in at the end of the semester.

"Teaching him how to drink, is it?" Though a smile curls at Ron's lips, there isn't much mirth behind them at all.

"No!" This time, she lets him see her roll her eyes. "We were wrapping up our session when Sirius came over and Draco had a glass with us. That's all." Which is true every Wednesday night; not Tuesday (the night before), and certainly not last night.

"So Sirius just stays over all hours of the night, then?"

He does, but before she can formulate a sensitive way in which to answer this question, there's a knock on the door and Ron is disgruntled when she ignores him in order to go open it.

Speak of the devil. "Sirius," she greets him and not too kindly. He's resplendent in his well-fitted khakis, t-shirt, and charcoal blazer. He peers into the room, concern on his face. "Something told me it'd be a good idea to pop by on my way over to the shop before the end of my break." He looks from Ron, who is glowering at him, to Hermione and asks low enough, bowing his head, to where Ron doesn't hear or see his lips move. "Everything okay, kitten?"

She nods and moves aside to let him in.

"Ron, this is my friend, Sirius." Hermione gestures towards Sirius with her hands as though she's half-heartedly showing off a prize on a game show.

Ron looks sick as he takes in the sight of the gorgeous man in front of him who has an easy smile and charming way in which he holds himself.

"Just left the old wallet on the table or chair," Sirius is saying and he offers a charismatic smile. He holds his hand out for Ron to shake. Ron is hesitant, but eventually reaches for the older man. "You must be Ron. Hermione talks about you all the time."

It's the half truth. She talks to Sirius about the terrible things they've been going through ever since she moved over here, and rarely does she ever bring Ron up of her own volition. It's Sirius who pries and has questions, always making sure that she's being treated properly. Most of the time, she tell him, she feels that she's the one treating Ron poorly with the expectations she has of him and the wishes that he could mature faster and just be more mindful and aware.

"You like to drink, mate?" Sirius asks, and now he's all fake-punches-in-the-bicep/masculine-shoulder-claps, and his voice is deeper, easing into his role of the man's man and Ron is actually eating it up when Sirius offers, "Love to have you down at the shop for a couple'a pints. Wouldn't have to spend a thing."

"I'm staying through Tuesday," Ron offers, glancing at Hermione. Sirius catches her eye and they share a conversation in half a second, and she sees that he understands how the week should go: her place is off limits to he and Lupin.

"Brilliant!" Sirius tears his gaze from Hermione and sets it back upon Ron. "Come tonight or tomorrow night." He gives him certain times which are when Hermione is out of class, so she can either go with him or potentially avoid him. "I'll have you all set up. We've a food menu, as well. Anything you like, mate. A friend and boyfriend of Hermione's is a friend of mine."

Hermione hears Sirius's lie bust out from behind his teeth, and his smile struggles to shatter the sneer just below the surface of his countenance. His eyes flick to Hermione's and she gives a discreet nod. Sirius doesn't want Ron at his shop at all.

xXx

Remus Lupin is wringing his hands to the point of bruising them when he steps into Sirius Black's shop after he's closed up for the night. Remus's hair looks as though it's been ruffled and tousled from sleep or staying in bed all day, but really, he just got out of his evening class. Sirius knows he hasn't brushed it in a while—he's doing the thing again where he isn't taking very good care of himself. And his facial hair is growing back thicker, yet is still scruffy and not quite a full beard yet.

"I've not been feeling well," he tells Sirius. Yes, his eyes are haggard and exhausted and they burn dull, like a man ate up with paranoia.

Remus always seems to get very sick at least once a month and Sirius is sure he now knows why. He's also sure Remus knows he knows why, which is probably the reason that he gets so uptight and tight-lipped anytime Sirius tries to bring it up.

But, instead of a physical illness that he expects Remus to talk about, he says, "I've been having strange dreams."

Sirius hums in acknowledgment to show that he's listening. He arranges the pint glasses he just finished drying in an elaborate pyramid as Remus takes a ratty seat at the bar: some of the stuffing has escaped the cushion, but he doesn't seem to notice or care. Remus's hand stop their worry work and one flies to his scruff and his fingers trace erratic lines around his cheeks, his chin. Sirius gives him a very pointed look and he stops.

"I'll give you a reading." Sirius says, reaching into one of the small built-in shelves below the bar and near the beer taps.

He shuffles his tarot cards and spreads them out on the small space of the bar in between them, face down and laying side by side. He picks twelve at random, holds them in their own small stack, and swipes the remainders away. He lays out the cards in front of Remus, who rolls his eyes, but also leans forward all the same. Remus places his elbows on the bar's wood and rests his cheeks on his fists.

Sirius clears his throat and swipes his hair from his eyes as he begins his reading, laying the cards at odd angles. "Four of Swords: Illusions, temptation, and diversions." Sirius raises his eyebrow at Remus, who isn't reacting at all. "Something you've always thought of as a constant in your life has always been an illusion. This is most likely you career or a relationship. And the diversion is something new that brings you some- thing to look forward to. Because it's so good for you, you feel tempted to move to- wards that and try to shrug off your relationship that isn't working out." Sirius gives Remus a meaningful look and Remus's eyes widen as he thinks about Dora.

Sirius goes on. "Five of wands. You are restless, and need peace. The Moon. Fear, being stuck in a rut, hopelessness. Nine of Swords. Nightmare and worry. This is probably a result from all of the above, honestly. And that's probably why you've not been sleeping well and that you're always so exhausted, mate."

Remus rubs his face briskly with both hands. "I'm probably so tired because I'm overextending myself again."

Sirius goes on as though Remus hasn't said anything. "Death."

"Oh, good. So I'm dying." Remus gives a self-deprecating chuckle that Sirius doesn't smile at.

"No, you prat. Death means transformation, or that something in your life is going to end."

Remus grabs Sirius's hand from across the table to stop him with the reading. "Sirius, how much truth about our lives is there really in our dreams?" Remus removes his grip and goes back to twisting his hands in his lap and Sirius can't take the sight any- more.

"Stop that."

Remus leans away from the bar and shoves his hands into the hoodie's pouch so Sirius doesn't have to watch.

"Do you mean to ask me if we dream about things that are true to ourselves?" Sirius swipes up his cards in a haughty manner and shoves them all back in the velvet pouch he got them out of.

"I mean. When we dream. How much does it absolutely speak to the state of our lives?"

"Sometimes." Sirius shrugs like it's a stupid question that Remus should have known the answer to. "Well...most of the time, not at all. Most of the time, they mean nothing at all, Remus. Especially nightmares." Sirius is cleaning out more pint glasses, stops drying one with a nearby microfiber rag. "Sometimes, they do. Really, they're just reflections of things we've seen or heard in passing or they're just images of our worries. Like when you have a dream that you're falling? That gut sinking dread that comes along with it is just indicative of the things that are worrying you in your waking life."

"I thought nightmares reflected our anxieties."

"Not just nightmares. Sometimes you can have the best dream ever, and there could still be an anxious undertone, or an imagine or flash indicative of that."

Remus hums at this in response. Perhaps, that's why he has residual guilt in the mornings after a very pleasant dream about his new student.

"Dreams are a lot like reality, Remus. Nothing is ever really the way it seems to be, isn't it? Illusions, just as your card said. Dreams can be creative extensions of your day- dreams. Or, perhaps your daydreams are a brittle attempt at trying to catch what you long to remember about your dreams." He stacks these new dry pint glasses with the others. "What happens in yours?"

"I can't ever recall the full dream," Remus says carefully, playing with a stray hanging string on the cuff of his sleeve.

'Liar,' Sirius thinks, and says with his furrowed brow instead of words.

Remus flushes at this look and goes on, "I just. Know _vaguely_ what they're about. I couldn't tell you a play by play...I dream about a woman all the time," he finishes lamely with an uncomfortable grimace and pushes his shaggy hair out of his eyes, giving Sirius a hopeful look, waiting for an answer.

"Tonks?" Sirius offers, knowing full well that's not who it is. He bends under the bar and pulls out a massive tub of pretzels and unscrews the lid so he can pour some in a nearby bowl. He returns the tub upon its shelf and drags the bowl in between he and Remus and chops loudly on a fistful, waiting for Remus's answer.

"No." Remus fishes a broken pretzel out and plays with it.

"Well," Sirius says around the food in his mouth, "perhaps something is going to happen to you. Something new...or different." Sirius swallows his pretzels hard, eyes watering as they scratch an abrasive trail down his throat. He pulls the soda handle out of its spout and clicks the water button, squirting some into a clean glass and guzzles it in one go.

Remus cannot believe that Sirius has the good sense to not beg him who, instead, is plaguing his dreams. "Nothing ever happens to me."

"I mean between you and Tonks." He raises his eyebrow and points at Remus's left hand. "The wedding?"

Remus doesn't tell him that in the entire eight months they've been engaged that they both have failed to do any proper research or initiate any conversations about their wedding at all. Instead, he just mutters a painful and slightly gloomy, "Maybe."

"And what the hell is this?" Sirius says around more dusty pretzels, waving his hand at the hoodie with the lion on it. "Why are you wearing this all the time?"

"She gave it to me?" Only she hadn't. He's just never offered to give it back and she's never asked for him to return it, even when he wears it in front of her.

When Sirius doesn't ask 'Tonks?' like before, Remus knows that his friend knows the name he refuses to say.

Sirius 'hmphs' in a rude way and Remus goes in on him, frustrated, "You know, I've never had to wonder why you aren't in relationships for very long." He's speaking to the childish way his friend eats and drinks.

"Better that than being in one for too long and then feel too guilty to leave." They both realize this is one of the cruelest things Sirius has ever said, not just to Remus, but to anyone in his life. Even their shared enemies. He mummers an apology and Remus's acceptance of it is even quieter.

"May I have a drink, Sirius? Just a pint?" Remus smiles, breaking the awkward thick silence that settled upon them.

Sirius obliges. "I'll go make up some sandwiches if you'd like to stay."

Remus digs into the shoulder bag he'd placed in the seat next to him. "I can get on with some grading. That sounds great, Sirius. Thanks."

Sirius grunts out that it's not a problem.

Remus is deep into some grading at the bar and he comes across one of Hermione's papers when Sirius returns with two plates and thick sandwiches.

Sirius asks how Hermione's doing in classes.

And he can tell exactly how Remus feels about her before it even happens and before Remus can even put his finger on what this sickening tug at the pit of his stomach has been. "She's fantastic." Not 'she's _doing_ fantastic,' not 'she's a fantastic _student.'_ Just...she's fantastic.

Sirius looks at his friend for quite a while after he goes back to reading papers and warns him, "Just make sure you take care of business, Remus, and look after yourself."

But it's hard to take care of business when flashes of his dream the night before cloud his mind. Images of Hermione with him in his office, the door shut, him towering over her, her eyes wide and excited with a flowing foreboding and curiosity. Images of him having to take a cold shower the next morning, sweating in the frigid water and he strokes himself to completion, his forehead pressed so hard into the shower wall to steady himself that it's pink and nearly bruised when he dries off and dresses for the day, feeling even worse about himself than he usually does. It's been like this since Regulus turned his life upside down by simply accosting a young woman he never should have cared about in the slightest in the first place.

But, it was Regulus's actions and not his words that excelled Remus's imprint upon Hermione. As much as he's tried to ignore or repress and suppress this doubleness, this double consciousness and nature within him, the monster is never too far away. And the monster, though buried and sometimes controlled, has always been in search of a mate. He just didn't think it would ever be someone younger than him and much less a student. He'd always hoped that he could trick the monster into thinking Dora his mate, but it's never worked.

Remus grips his pin, swallowing back a frustrated growl.

Sirius is staring at Remus through squinted eyes, capturing sharp sparks of Remus's thoughts in his own mind.

"Do you wish to act those things out in real life?" Sirius is referring to Remus's dream haunting him with the desire to pull Hermione close to him and not share her with the rest of the world.

"No." the answer is too quick, and they both know that Remus is lying, for he won't meet Sirius's gaze.

Remus knows Sirius is riddled with superstitions and strange ideologies. He's ruled by his little deck of cards, by horoscopes and zodiacs. He hates how Sirius has been gifted (or cursed?) in such a way that he just _knows_ about him and about every- one else, too. They never talk about it, and it's something that Remus has accepted a long time ago. He knows that when Sirius Reads people, he can't help with what he knows about them. Sirius can read whatever is hidden behind these masks of propriety, but he never goes looking of his own volition. These things come to him as they need to and when he especially doesn't want to know about them.

"You should come to Hermione's birthday," Sirius changes the topic, but not quite totally.

"I don't know how appropriate that would be." Remus mutters, head in hand as he marks up Draco Malfoy's paper—he's getting so much better, and Remus feels a jolt of pride.

"Who says anything about it being inappropriate? You lot invite students out to drinks and dinners all the time! I don't think anyone would think it odd that you popped in." Sirius doesn't tell him that if any of his behavior could be deemed inappropriate, it would be the fact that he goes to her apartment sometimes with Sirius. "I think Dumbledore's even going to make it. Minerva, for sure. I hope Snivelly—"

"Severus," Remus corrects his friend automatically, his voice mild as always, but absolutely exasperated.

"Comes just so I can kick him out," Sirius finishes loudly, drowning out Remus's comment meant to correct him.

Remus almost says, 'Yes, you and James would love that,' but doesn't. He hopes Sirius doesn't read that out of him, but he reminds himself that Sirius is not a mind reader. Just a clairvoyant...sometimes.

"Will you come? I need to know if I ought to order any more liquor and the like."

Remus sighs and starts returning his students' papers and things back into his shoulder bag. He won't be able to finish this up tonight if he stays close to Sirius. This is just like it was when they were in school, and he didn't know why he thought it would be any different now.

He stands and shoulders his bag. "Thank you for your time, Sirius."

Sirius leans over the bar, picks up Remus's uneaten sandwich, and extends it to his friend as though he's handing him a book. "Fucking eat this, Lupin. Or I'll make you," he offers a small, but genuine, smile and Remus returns it, taking the sandwich.

xXx

 _She is watching Remus as though she is a fly on his wall in the bathroom. At the top corner of his shower, to be exact. She never saw him undressed, just as soon as he pulled the shower curtain back and turned the faucets all the way to hot._

 _The water coming down is so hot that it must be scalding his skin, for his shoulders are pink from the heat's assault. He groans and rolls his neck, pushing his wet hair back from his forehead. One of his hands traces a line from his neck all the way down to his groin and he is erect in an instant. He lets out something between a shaky breath and soft moan before he leans the underside of his forearm against the shower's wall to steady himself then rests his forehead at the top of his forearm, trembling under the shower head's steady jet stream and steam._

 _The fingers of his free hand tug gently at his pubic hair and he presses his fore- head harder into his arm, letting out a quick and desperate pant. He goes to stroke his aching cock, tugging it downward and away from his body, gripping at the water and precum-slicked tip before letting it go and having it spring back and rest against his lower belly, pointing upward towards his navel. He tugs at his scrotum gently and sighs before stroking himself slowly, then with a tightened grip and more in a frenzied motion. He pulls his head back and bites down on his forearm, stifling a louder moan that Hermione can still hear coming out of his throat. It doesn't take long for him to meet his release, and her first name on his lips, dragged out, is unmistakable, and haunting._

Hermione wakes with a violent gasp, clutching at her sheets when she sits bolt up- right in her bed. Her chest heaves gently as she pants, feeling sweat tickling her fore- head. She wipes at her brow and looks over at Ron who is sleeping with his back to her and snoring obnoxiously. She can't believe he's slept through her jolting away, shaking the bed as she struggled to sit up, back against the old, wooden headboard.

It's been quite a while since she's had a sex dream about her professor. Weeks.

She feels so indecent to have these sorts of dreams, especially now that Ron is staying (and sleeping with her) for the next few days. But then she has an unsettling realization.

The time for decency has passed—these late-night intrusions and interruptions are not only something she realizes she expects every so often, but misses them and _longs_ for them when they don't come to her.

Sometimes nothing has to happen at all to bring about a severe and savage at- traction and attachment to someone else. Hermione is sure this is what's happened to her. She still wants to refuse this or object to it, but she can't get over just how magnetic he feels to her sometimes. That she just feels very safe and comfortable around him, but also nervous and sick at the same time.

She wills herself to go back to sleep, the faint thought of today being her birthday tickling the back of her mind. And in this early morning fatigue, she feels much older than twenty-five.

xXx

Ron wakes her closer to eleven (she hates she's slept that long) when he's clambering around too much in her kitchenette with the kettle to make tea.

She's not surprised in the slightest when he fails to wish her a happy birthday when she wakes up, entangled in her twisted sheets and comforter. She's surprised he's up before noon: he drank far too much last night as he took Sirius up on drinks. Ron was home by the time Hermione got back from class and was already passed out, face down on her bed with his shoes still on.

"What are you doing today?" He asks in between bites of too burnt toast slathered in jam.

She helps herself to the tea and sips at it gingerly. "I have my party this evening." "Party?" "For my birthday?" He nearly drops his piece of toast. He catches it, shoves the rest of it in his mouth,

then peels the edge of his shirt up to his face to lick off jam that had fallen. "I thought your birthday was tomorrow, 'Mione."

"No, it's always been this date, Ronald."

"Well, maybe I can take you out for lunch or something," he offers, his ears burning red in embarrassment.

"I'm going to the library. I do homework there every Sunday."

"You have like three classes. You've been doing homework since I've been here. Can't you take a break?"

"I'm taking four classes, and no I can't take a break." She tosses her mug into the sink a little too roughly and it clinks against the pint glasses she put there last night.

She scoops up some day clothes to change into and takes them into her bath- room for her shower. When she gets out, she sees that Ron has changed, as well, and he's made her a simple breakfast. She smiles at him, thanking him profusely for the gesture and tells him she'll see him tonight. Everything would have been great, had he not pulled her close and then murmured something about making this up to her with 'a birthday shag' after the party tonight.

xXx

Sirius is walking around with a single baked potato cut in half, drowned in butter on a paper plate and is eating it with a plastic fork when he welcomes her inside, ushering her in with one swooping arm, nearly tangling his fork into her hair. She's come to believe it's strange when she encounters him and he _isn't_ eating at some point. She's told this to him before, but he only scoffed at her and ascertained that he's a growing boy who needs his nutrients.

She thought that she'd perhaps be the first person to arrive, thinking she'd shown up too early, but the room was more packed than she'd ever seen it in all her time here. The crowd reminds her of old college parties where it always seemed like the goal was to fit as many people in one room as possible.

Sirius has allowed people to smoke in the bar and it now smells like more than just cigarettes are burning. Hermione wrinkles her nose in annoyance at the offensive smells. She cuts through clouds of smoke and a throng of people she's never seen in all her life crowded around the jukebox (The Velvet Underground's 'Femme Fatale' playing for the umpteenth time, followed by 'Cool It Down' for the thousandth, accompanied by Sirius and James singing along, obnoxiously and to the point where she's experiencing second-hand embarrassment).

Hermione perches herself upon a barstool and grabs some pretzels out of a near- by bowl. She swivels to where her back is to the bar and she's facing the throng of partygoers, squinting at the low yellow lighting to pick out someone she may know. She hopes Draco and Luna show up. They told her the other day at the library that they at least wanted to stop by.

James removes his attention from Sirius when he sees Lily come inside, her red hair a blur that crosses the room in lithe and graceful movements to join Hermione near the bar.

"Oi, Evans!" He shouts, both hands acting like a megaphone around his mouth.

Lily rolls her eyes, but Hermione cannot mistake the ghost of a smile behind her scowl. When she doesn't give him the attention he craves, she turns to Hermione and her grin is just so Harry that it's uncanny. "I know we've never met before, but my son talks about you all the time that I at least wanted to stop by and wish his new friend a very happy birthday."

Hermione blushes from what she said. "That's very sweet. Thank you so much, Mrs. Potter. I really appreciate it."

Lily flips her long hair behind her shoulder and her smile reaches her eyes. She has slight crowfeet from smiling far too much, it seems. "No trouble at all." She helps herself to the pretzels, as well and nibbles at the corner of one, her eyes wide and interested. "James tells me you've been spending a lot of time with our dear Sirius." But she says this in a suggestive way and quirks her eyebrow upward in a charming manner, as though she's suggesting something like Hermione and Sirius are more than friends.

"Oh!" Hermione blushes even more so. "No, it's nothing like that."

"Oh, no, love. I don't mean to insinuate anything; I simply meant that you've been very good for him. He seems to be in better spirits these days. So, thank you for doing that and being there for him."

"It's really no trouble, honestly. He's great company. And he tends to cheer me up a lot when I've had very long days."

"So, you don't like him as more than a friend just even a tiny bit?"

Hermione feels her mouth open and close so much that she thinks she must look like a fish gasping for air.

Lily bursts out laughing and swats at Hermione's shoulder. "I'm just teasing you. You know who my husband and friends are—I'm not without my own mischief."

She really isn't, and Hermione likes that about her. She seems so much younger because of it, and she just glows. Hermione hasn't met many people like that and she's envious in a way, wondering if people think the same about her sometimes.

When the obnoxious music and singing ends, James saunters over to where they're sitting and musses up his sweaty, jet black hair to an absolute mess. He leans jauntily against the bar on Lily's other side and grins at her, his eyebrow quirking up. "Hey, Evans. Wanna go out with me sometime?"

Lily rolls her eyes and flips her hair in such an impudent way, Hermione feels as though she's watching two teenagers interact with one another. Hermione realizes this is how they must have spoken to one another sometime before they eventually got together. "Not with a bullying toe rag such as yourself, Potter."

"Go on, Evans. Go out with me and I'll leave everyone alone for as long as I live." He grins cheekily, leans into her to kiss her cheek, but Lily springs up to her feet.

"Sorry, Potter, but I see a girlfriend across the room. Also, it's quite crowded in here, thanks to your massive head."

James's jaw drops at that remark, but Lily winks at him as she saunters away but not before giving Hermione one last smile and tells her happy birthday one more time.

James looks at Hermione appraisingly. "She was talking about me before I got here, wasn't she?"

"Not in the slightest."

James puffs his chest out and messes his hair up again. "You don't need to lie to me, love. I know girls can't help but talk about the bloke they're the most keen on. I'll get a dance with her before the end of the night, you'll see."

He shoves off from her and before she knows it, she's alone again.

It is so loud both in sound and smell and sweat that she needs a breath of fresh air and heads towards the back exit.

She fumbles with the door handle at the heavy door and throws her shoulder in it and stumbles outside. Sirius, Harry, and James are trying to make some kind of gar- den seating area back here, but all they've managed is a few folding chairs, the old transistor radio, and a sort of tarp canopy to protect them from the rain. There's an old bucket full of cigarette butts and unfinished, soggy cigar remains. Empty bottles and crushed cans hang loose in a damp trash bag next to the bucket.

Hermione wraps her arms around herself and rubs briskly at her bare forearms. She steps out from under the tarp to look at what plants are potted. They obviously haven't been taken care of and she shakes her head in annoyance. Ever ambitious they guys are, but don't know how to take care of business.

"Pity, isn't it?"

She turns towards the voice that she's began to know so well and actually looks forward to hearing after a particularly nasty day or evening. "What is?"

Professor Lupin gestures towards the plants she's just removed her attention from. "Children, the lot of them. Who kills an innocent set of plants?"

"I think they'll get the hang of things. At least in the next decade."

Lupin arches his eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "That is quite generous of you, Miss Granger."

"I try to be, you know. Especially when it comes to those as special as Sirius and James."

"You'll get more wicked because of them," he smirks at her, both hands in his pockets, a book tucked in between his side and inner bicep.

"Sirius tells me your boyfriend is here?" Lupin says this casually, his voice as mild and even as ever.

"Yes, but he's off entertaining some folks. I've told him a lot about Harry, so I sup- pose he's trying to impress him. Especially about soccer, no doubt."

He smiles kindly at her and moves closer in the moonlight. "You sound annoyed."

The clouds shift further apart and he is bathed in a dim, natural glow and to Hermione, he looks better than he has in weeks.

"I am. I hate how he can't help wanting to show off once he's around other people. Especially new people."

"Well, I don't blame you for being upset. Particularly if he's come all this way to visit you." He shifts the book from his side to his hands. He speaks at it, rather than her. "I couldn't imagine ignoring you just to partake in a pissing contest."

When he looks back up, their eyes lock in the moonlight and his gaze traces the shape of her lips before settling upon her eyes once more and his liquid, molten stare cools into something resembling affection. He goes to say something or ask some- thing, but she cuts him off.

"Isn't your fiancé here?" Her breath hitches and she curses herself for interrupting him before he even had the chance to say something.

Lupin comes out of the trance he seems to be in and drops his gaze from her. The book in his hand curls to his side, rests against his hip where he previously started ex- tending it to her in an offer. "Yes, though she is over entertaining the guys, as well. She's Sirius's cousin. Grew up with him, they all treat her like one of the guys."

Hermione hears everything Lupin doesn't say. He moves closer to her and she lets him because she doesn't retreat. He looks at her meaningfully, as though he wants to say something to her, convey something to her, but doesn't articulate a single word. Hermione's eyes widen, and she gives him a slight encouraging and wistful look, nib- bling at the bottom of her lip after the tip of her tongue darts across it. Lupin has watched her mouth's every movement in this moment.

"Remus," she says his name quietly, relishing the forbidden twinge it leaves wet on her lower lip and the dull ache that catches in her chest. She relishes in the way that he has stiffened completely, towering over her, looking down at her, stating too close to her.

"Yes, Hermione?" He whispers, dragging her given name out so long, as though he'll never be able to say it again. He goes to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, but the back door bursts open and Sirius is yelling at them to get back inside because it's time for cake.

xXx


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER VII

Disclaimer: As always, all recognizable things belong to J.K. Rowling.

A/N: As always, thanks to everyone who reads, and takes the time to leave a re- view. Special thanks to Saint Taylor and Daphne (guest) for their long reviews and continuing support! :D So sorry for any delay. I have picked up some freelance writing work and was too preoccupied with that for days at a time. I hope this chapter is all right and I will try not to take as long to update the next one!

A/N 2: I apologize for any stupid spelling or grammar errors. This chapter is over 12,500 words long and my eyes glazed over every time I tried to proofread. And like I've said before, Ulysses writing app makes it difficult to catch errors because it doesn't underline any awkwardness.

XXXX

And then it's like Hermione and Remus do their absolute best to ignore each other once they've been arraigned by Sirius to come inside yet again. And to think about it, the night has grown much too cold to sit outside and have a normal conversation anyway, so there is no reason for the both of them to be out there to begin with, and Hermione feels a creeping and shameful blush spread from her cheeks all the way to her chest.

A brief dalliance into this cold night is reserved only for those wishing to pop outside to smoke a cigarette (which is madness of its own, as the smokers are clearly inside, too afraid to try this crisp and piercing gale of the night), or hoping to gulp down one strong and deep breath of fresh air away from the collection of inebriated individuals inside. Which she has already done. And which he has already done.

Yes, Sirius is correct in everything he doesn't say to Hermione or Remus when he tells them to come in: they should have been back inside long ago, but the reason nobody seemed to notice their absence is the mere fact that they were just too may other people in attendance to even notice that the birthday girl and Sirius's own best friend were missing. Sirius doesn't offer then any kind of look as he leads them away from the door and Hermione chances a glance at Remus. His hands are shoved deep into his trousers' pockets and his jaw is clenched so tightly that he's probably grounded some back teeth into dust.

She reaches out her hand to touch the back of his arm, really going to tug at his cardigan's sleeve to get his attention now that it's harder to hear inside with all the bustling sounds and now that Sirius is a bit ahead of them and shouting something at Harry, who is behind the bar and chugging a glass of ice water.

Her fingertips just brush the soft fabric of Remus's cardigan, not even enough for him to really notice, and yet he still steps ahead of her as though jolted or shaken by something he'd rather not have encountered. And Remus begs off, moves away from her with a shadow of a stern look she can tell just from his profile as she attempts to move near him. He's saying that he needs to find Dora, and Hermione lets him go without saying another word to him, leaving a rude, stifling air between the both of them. Hermione thinks it completely obnoxious that this is something he's done to her on another occasion.

She scowls at his back, not caring in the slightest that this makes her somewhat childish. She especially doesn't mind the deep-seated pettiness that has taken over in her hopes that he chances a look back at her to catch her impudent expression directed towards him. She should be able to have that after all of this hot and cold nonsense with the way he switches his temperament when interacting with her. Now she's sure he won't speak to her for a whole other week. At the very least, Hermione is sure they will ignore one another for the rest of the time they're at her party.

Fine.

She should really find Ron herself anyway, but Sirius has now removed himself from Harry, and is steering her in the direction of the kitchen (that he and Harry are al- ways disappearing into whenever they're working) behind two swinging doors.

By now, before she escapes this main room entirely, she's noticed that Sirius has absolutely lost control of the party and many guests have shed any hope of holding onto whatever dignity and decency they came with for the rest of the evening. Opposite the direction she's being taken in, she notices that someone has managed to knock some chairs over and that some of these chairs are missing legs and two obnoxious, very young looking guys are playing swords with them. Someone had torn down the really neat string lights that Sirius managed to hang upon the wall and ceiling at the end of last week. She wrinkles her nose at Sirius's terrible idea to pass out her birthday fliers to just anybody, which everybody has seemingly interpreted as an invitation to a free-for-all.

"Sirius, there are people behind the bar." And not just people, but absolute animals, for they had began drinking straight from the liquor bottles left unattended. Not that Harry was necessarily doing the greatest job in the world guarding their products. He was the one who actually started the whole letting people come behind the bar, kicking it off with a keg stand challenge that everyone has failed so miserably and to the point that people are running to the restrooms or outside to relieve themselves and their soured stomachs.

Hermione cannot believe how quickly this has turned into a college party appropriate only for much younger students than she and her other friends.

"Who am I to stop people from having a great time?" And in this moment, she knows that Sirius is very close to surpassing the slightly intoxicated threshold, heading straight into being as belligerent as everyone else, although he's still in the silly phase of being tipsy.

"I just don't want you to be out of a ton of money."

"I cleared out the good stuff earlier and everything back there is totally watered down. Come now, kitten, you didn't think I wouldn't know something like this was going to happen?"

He squints down at her and shakes his great shaggy head. "I'm pleasantly disappointed in you, Hermione. You don't know an old marauding git such as myself didn't do things like this when he was younger?"

"Please don't refer to yourself in the third person. The last time his happened, it didn't stop for a week."

"I will never stop doing something that absolutely grates on you." He flings an arm around her shoulders and pulls her tightly to his side, sending her off balance to where she presses her hand into his chest to steady herself. He covers that hand affectionately. "You should have known that the moment you adopted me."

She falls out of his embrace and by this point, they've just been standing in the threshold of the kitchen, Sirius leaning into the flimsy and wavy door with great difficulty, as Hermione needed to use her own hand to steady him by bracing his other arm. She is instantly reminded of one of their earliest encounters at the Longbottom's grocery shop and being shouted at for letting all the cold air slip out due to Sirius's in- capability to properly utilize doors.

"Sirius Black, in or out? _Please_."

His face shines with an adolescent glee at her phrasing and she doesn't think she's ever seen a grown man look more like a teenager than in this moment. He goes to open his mouth and say something absolutely asinine, but a golden joke in the style of sophomoric humor. Hermione reaches upward, standing on the tips of her toes, and covers his big, fat mouth with her small hand. He stumbles backwards and into the kitchen, tugging her along with him, but not before licking her palm to make her let go, and earning a swift swat on the shoulder in return.

Sirius is, of course, roaring with laughter—the swat was absolutely worth it, just like all the ones that came before this one and for much worse reasons that smarted much harder and for much longer. He'd told her at some point that he would love to have a tattoo of her handprint, and she jokingly asked where he'd put it.

'Would you keep it close to your heart?' She'd asked a couple weeks ago, tugging down his shirt gently as he lay stretched out in her armchair one evening. Only he'd jerked away from her, hopped to his feet as though scorned, and buttoned his shirt up to the top-most button and left her alone for the rest of the day. They haven't spoken about the incident since, and it was truly the only area of actual conflict they'd experienced in their relationship thus far.

Hermione shakes her head of the memory as Sirius ushers her forward and further into the kitchen, which is much larger than she expected it to be, actually. His hand is ghosting his finger tips close to the small of her back, 'in the appropriate space meant for a friend to touch,' Hermione thinks to herself, cataloguing this in her memory to tell Lily later, should the older woman bring up more of her strange and intimate musings about the nature of Hermione and Sirius's relationship.

'Not for whatever reason,' she thinks, 'Lily's heard James's account of how you and Sirius are. Have you been giving him the wrong impression all this time?' She bites her lip in worry, but doesn't allow it to permeate her thoughts too much and in front of too many people who will no doubt ask her a barrage of questions about her well-being should they see her upset on her birthday of all days.

Then Sirius's hand is squeezing gently at the top of her shoulder and shaking her out and away from her thoughts.

"Can I start swatting you for all the times you don't pay attention to me?" Sirius is asking, grinning down at her in such a mischievous way that would make him the envy of all trouble makers, and for a moment it looks like he's slightly sobering up.

And for a moment, it looks like there's a knowing glint in his grey eyes, as though he can read exactly what she's thinking about and what she's feeling.

She wants to tell him, 'No, swatting is my thing. Find your own thing, Sirius,' but all she does is give him a small smile.

And so it is and so as she has expected, the only people crowded around the cake in the small kitchen at the back of the bar are some of the people closest to her in this new town, in this new home, and in this new life: Sirius, Harry (swaying and finally torn away from his previous antics), Draco, and Luna.

Ron is standing at Harry's elbow, grinning sheepishly at her through reddened eyes. He offers a small wave at her before the few of them in the kitchen sing at happy birthday to her, and when she leans in to blow out her candles, she wishes that her relationships would be a bit easier to handle, especially in the coming weeks with exams coming up so soon.

They each get a slice of cake: it's strawberry with a cream cheese icing and Luna said she baked it fresh earlier in the afternoon as her birthday gift for Hermione, and she tells Luna what a thoughtful gift it was.

"Homemade gifts are the best kind of gifts," Hermione assures her friend, scraping the last bits of icing off the paper plate with her plastic fork before throwing the plate and the fork in the rubbish bin.

"Wish I would have known that before I spent good money on you, Granger," Draco drawls before tossing a small wrapped box in the air.

She catches it in time and gives him a small smile. "Draco, I'm surprised you thought about someone else for once in your life."

"Such a touching sentiment, Granger. Stop it. You're making me blush," he deadpans and flaps his hand at her in annoyance. "Please, open it. Everyone is close to death with all their anticipation."

Luna laughs at this like it's the first funny thing she's ever heard in all of her life.

Hermione makes quick work of shredding it open, tossing the emerald and silver striped paper into the trash. Hermione reads the top of the box and blushes furiously, covering the lid with a palm.

"Oi! What is it?" Sirius screeches, demanding to know.

"Draco!" She chastises him and Draco doubles over, holding his stomach from laughing, grinning so hard that he's hurt his face.

"I don't care how many swats I get over this; it was totally worth the look on your face."

Sirius has managed to back Hermione into himself, his chest against her shoulders, his long arms flailing around her front and he manages to wrench Draco's gift from her. "ONE HUNDRED QUESTIONS ABOUT SEX, THE GAME?!" Sirius holds the box over his head like a coveted trophy and Hermione stretches to her tiptoes, hopping slightly to get it back.

"Give. It. _Here_. SIRIUS!"

Sirius hands it back to her, and then says to Draco. "Knew I liked you for a reason, mate. Didn't know I'd eventually _love_ you."

Ron looks confused, but is laughing with the rest of them after Sirius revealed what the gift was. "Why did you get her that?"

"Chill out, Red," Draco tells him. "I'm not trying to woo your girl. First time we ever met, she told me she's nothing but boring. I thought this would be funny. Something to make her light up."

"We are playing this. If not tonight, then in the near future," Sirius vows.

Hermione rolls her eyes. "Then _you_ hold onto it." She shoves it into his chest, her blush ebbing away, and is now able to laugh with the rest of them.

Harry steps forward and gives her something a little bit bigger, but thinner. "It's not much, but I remember what you said about wanting to do something fun. Like, developing a new hobby. I thought you'd like this."

Harry has wrapped the gift up in older newspapers, and she smiles at how cool it looks. It's a calligraphy set that includes a few different sized nibs and several ink re- fills.

"I love it, Harry. Thank you."

"I know how to do it a bit," he says eagerly, moving closer to her to show her the little booklet it comes with and the basic fonts to learn, pointing at some. "I can do these, but not most. I thought maybe one Saturday you aren't too busy we could work on this at the coffee shop?"

"Oh, that'd be great, Harry. Thank you. I love it." She repeats, throwing her arms around his neck to give him an affectionate hug.

She shoves this gift into Sirius's chest and he makes a face. "I'm your table, then?" "Shush." Ron hands her a gift bag and inside, every inch is stuffed with her absolute favorite sweets. "Thought you'd like a massive stash of snacks for when you're spending too much time at the library." He shrugs, and his ears are pink.

"Oh, Ron. That's very, very sweet. I'm excited about these. Although, it'll be really hard to not eat them all in one go." She offers him a small smile.

He gives her a crooked smile in return. She sits the bag down on a nearby counter, and pulls him into a hug, his arms so low upon her waist, his hands may as well have been gripping her ass. She pulls back and goes to kiss him on the cheek, but he turns his head last minute and catches her lips in his in a very wet kiss. Draco fake-retches over the sight and Luna, again, laughs at him as though he is the cleverest man in the world.

"What'd you get her, Sirius?" Ron asks when he pulls away from her at last.

Hermione is blushing once more at their very public display of affection and she discreetly wipes at her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Everyday is a gift with me. My presence is her present."

Harry sighs heavily. "I apologize profusely for my godfather."

"I am an international treasure who is unappreciated in his time, Harry. Now, if everyone is finished with cake, I'll put the rest in the fridge in the back, and Hermione, you can keep your presents on the table in here so people don't bother them. You can get them tomorrow if you'd like." Sirius drops everything unceremoniously onto the table and Harry puts the cake away.

Sirius declares it's time for more drinks and dancing and Harry, Luna, and Draco follow him out quickly.

Hermione goes to leave, too, but Ron pulls her back by the hand and looks down at her. "Would you like to dance with me, 'Mione?"

"Sure, Ron," she says quickly, "but I'd like a drink first," and heads out, leaving him in her dust.

She hates to treat Ron like that, but what she hates even more is when they hit these rough patches and he does something incredibly sweet like it erases all the negatives, indicating that she must not be cross with him ever again. And, to be honest, she was highly uncomfortable during their kiss. She'd never felt like that with him before. It felt like a chore for the very first time, and it felt like it lasted too long.

She all but skips further away from the kitchen's door and has disappeared into the throng of people to where Ron can't find her when he emerges from the kitchen. Harry's pulling him behind the bar to do more silly-boy-drinking stuff, and Hermione hopes it's a while until he finds her again.

Sirius is over by the jukebox, clearing out the mess and repairing the sound system. When it kicks back on, she swears that she will leave if he is playing the Velvet Underground yet again. But he doesn't, and instead plays a mix of Motown songs that gets everyone out on the dance floor. Hermione flees from the oncoming rush and grabs at a bottle of vodka sitting by its lonesome in the corner and pours it into a glass from a nearby stack that Sirius has left on each table, along with many cans of soda to mix it with.

She makes her drink stiff and grimaces at the first sip, but relaxes into a nearby chair (that hasn't been turned over and mauled by the others) and watches the dancers, highly amused at Sirius shrieking every word to 'Ain't No Mountain High Enough' while obnoxiously pointing as high as he can with his arm every time Aretha says 'high', his tight shirt pulled up and exposing his muscular and hairy belly that makes her blush and drink more and turn her attentions from him.

A wondrous sight, when the song shifts to 'My Girl' is Lily Evans Potter gripping her husband, James, as though he will float away from her any moment. Overtime they turn and Hermione catches glimpses of their faces, she can't help but smile inwardly over just how much like a pair of newlyweds they look like in this moment. That what- ever issues James was upset about weeks ago in the pub have evaporated for the time being, and he is able to dance peacefully (albeit, a bit handsy) with the woman he's always loved the best, whispering probably absurd things in her ear and looking too smug with himself when she laughs heartily at him in between soft, short kisses and shared gazes.

Amongst others who have already indulged too much too soon and who are al- ready on the way to being passed out at tables near and far, Hermione sees Draco and Luna involved in a slow dance of sorts. Draco is scowling, but he looks more pleased than he's seemed for quite some time, and she can't wait to give him a hard time about it in the near future—she wishes she had a camera to capture this moment.

Hermione's people watching takes her back to Harry's mother, who is now trying to flee the scene with Remus at her side, seeing her out.

It appears to Hermione that Lily is on her way out the door with the way she shoulders her purse and shuffles her feet in a way to show she's ready to go, and Remus, swaying ever so slightly on the tips of his toes, leans against one side of the door frame and presses his palm onto the opposite side to steady himself and smile down at Lily. He leans close to her and says something in her ear and when he pulls back, there is a beautiful and too wide mischievous grin on his face and Lily has thrown her head back in uproarious laughter.

She reaches out to him and caresses his cheek (and Hermione wonders, in a terrible ache, what his stubble much feel like under a smooth palm) in a friendly way. Lily stands on the tips of her toes, reaching to give him a kiss on his other cheek.

He steadies himself and looks down at her solemnly, when she wags a finger at him to place emphasis on whatever words she is saying to him, and he's nodding politely. He grins at her and his gaze moves from her to survey the room. And when the current song playing stops to transition to the next one in a twang and sensual bass riff, Chris Isaak's crooning, lamenting and melancholic Roy Orbison voice hums out, Remus's golden gaze locks onto Hermione's as the first lyrics spill out in an intimate utterance,

" _The world was on fire and no one could save me but you. It's strange what desire will make foolish people do."_

Hermione's breath catches in the back of her throat when she sees the way he subtly arches his eyebrow at her in an inviting and questioning way, but she does not drop the shared and connected look she has with him in this moment. And Remus doesn't look down at Lily when she pats his arm on her way outside. He puts his hands in his pockets and cocks his head to the side, studying her from afar and wordlessly asks her if he may approach her.

Hermione is standing at this point, clutching her drinking glass so tightly, basically holding on for dear life. She wishes to look around the room to see if anyone else is seeing what is happening to her in this moment, but she doesn't dare take her eyes off him. She's not sure if she's burning up from the opposite side of his heated look full of longing, or if it's the alcohol coursing through her, warming her stomach and her core.

She breaks their eye contact when she sees he's working his way towards her, and in a panic she surveys the room. But people are too enamored with whatever they're doing with themselves at the moment, and the dance floor is too packed with random and unrecognizable people. Remus pushes through them politely and finds his way to her in the dark corner she seems to have taken up residence in.

He's towering over her in an instant and he smells of sweet, dark whisky, and books, and teakwood, and his eyes show her that though he's a little unsteady on his feet, most of his mind is indeed still there. And it's clear for her, and he's here for her, even if this is the only true moment he can afford her.

"Miss Granger," he speaks softly, like she's used to hearing him and he's familiar and safe and wonderful, but also strange and surreal all at the same time.

"Professor," she almost stutters it out, but she gives him a sure smile.

He senses her nerves and smiles softly, a bit forlornly, at the title she still chooses to call him. He realizes that he's gazed at her for far too long, and it's not until near the song's end that he offers a timid hand, palm facing up, and asks, "Will the birthday girl grace an old man with just once dance this evening?"

She wants to tell him no. That both of their partners are here tonight. That she's not normally like this. And that if his benevolent ways are indicative of his true nature, then he must not normally be like this, either. That they're better than whatever strange, electrifying magic or attraction keeps crashing them violently into one another against their wills.

She wants to tell him that she never asked to meet him when she got accepted into this college. That nice men who give her naughty dreams shouldn't be allowed to melt her into muteness and ask for birthday dances. That men who look down at her with amusement dancing around their mouths and repressed desire flickering in their eyes, dressed like sleepy gentlemen should stay as far away from her as possible because they are dangerous and lovely and beautiful and underappreciated. That scholarly mentors with sad eyes and brilliant laughter lines and quiet voices like the sweetest lullabies have no business invading her space, her dreams, her center, and three o'clock in the morning ruminations.

And she wants to tell him that he's not old.

But, his height on her is intoxicating, and his slightly broad shoulders speak volumes of just how sheltered his embrace could make her feel. And his bowtie lay undone around his collar, and his shirt lay unbuttoned, exposing some of his chest and the hairs at the top, and his sleeves are rolled up to almost his elbow and she can see the muscles and ropes of scars that disappear under the shirt's folded fabric and beneath his watch's wristband. His face is handsome and youthful, but she knows his hands show just how much older than her he is, but in this moment, she does not care and for once in his life, he does not care.

He wants her to tell him to get away from her. To cancel his class for the rest of the semester so she never has to see him again. He wants to tell her that she's one of the worst students he's ever known in his life, including students he knew when _he_ was a student and since he's been a teacher so that he can get rid of her, keep her away from his office. He wants to tell her he's been lonely for so long, that young women _never_ invade the doldrums he's become ensnared in since his twenties. That small, bookish, and constantly curious young women with bright minds and faces full of divine light who ask all the right questions at all the wrong times shake him to his very core. That he's not been able to find her scents of vanilla and peppermint and old books and something he can't put his finger on in an all-in-one candle to burn in his office to keep him company when she's away. Yet, her scent lingers when she's not been around for _days_ and he's never felt more alone and more accompanied at the same time.

He wants to tell her that young women who are headstrong and absolutely original in thought and opinion are dangerous. That said women are still sensitive enough to need someone sturdier and perhaps even a little broken and well-acquainted with hardship to pull them close at night. That she _does_ get so close to him at night in his dreams. That his only wish besides to stay in them through all waking hours is to pull her right out of them and keep her with him for the rest of time.

'All that matters are the moments we are afforded in our lifetimes, and the only regrets that come at the end of them are when these moments are missed,' she tells herself, she tells him with her eyes, and he hears her.

He inclines his head forward and speaks softly in her ear, "Please allow me to be kind to you this evening, Miss Granger. No one will see. We're well-hidden."

And they are, and she lets him do as he asks, laying her small hand in his palm. He moves close and brushes his thigh against her as he takes her into his arms and situates her into an appropriate style of dance, leaving just enough space in between them to be decent. She moves her hand that he's not holding from his arm to his chest and her fingers and palm rest against him, light as a feather that they may as well not have been there, but he feels it with such a heaviness that is sinking him like a stone in the ocean, drowning him in her.

The song finally changes to Mazzy Star's 'Fade Into You,' and Remus chuckles softly, ruminating aloud upon the absolute cliché about it all. His chuckle masks his nerves (albeit, poorly) when she nods permission at him to move his hand to her waist to nudge her a bit closer still. Her fingers play with one of his bow tie ends and he looks down at her with such tenderness that she doesn't believe anyone's ever looked at her with, and he doesn't think he's ever had such a relaxed look on his face in all his life.

"Isn't there someone else you'd rather be dancing with?" Hermione is too nervous to speak above a whisper, as Remus's thumb traces a light pattern over her hand he's holding.

He pulls back to look down and her and offers a small, but sad smile. "She's off, still entertaining other people. Sometimes, I'm envious of her excitability and her extroverted side. Sometimes, I wish I could be more like her, but most of the time, I'm glad being stuck in my introverted rut. Do you ever feel like that?" He's swaying slightly and they both know that he's rambling, trying to catch words and nuances just to be able to hold onto this conversation for a millisecond longer than necessary, longer than appropriate, and in such a way to hopefully trick time into allowing the song to last longer than necessary.

"Ron's like that, too," she whispers, and this is the first flag to her that indicates that they are probably having a conversation that they shouldn't be having. Talking about things absolutely too personal. Heading toward some kind of point of no return. But, isn't that how conversations at parties go? Always straddling the border between appropriate/inappropriate, tame/wild?

"Isn't it impressive?" Lupin murmurs, his eyes fluttering shut as he shakes his head at himself for not just toeing, but crossing the line. His heart is in his throat when he feels her small, slender fingers smooth the bow tie end down against his shirt, daring a finger to touch where his chest is exposed, but hoping that it doesn't. "The degree in which one is ignored by another?"

Hermione doesn't know what to say, so she bites her lips and looks up at his golden brown eyes that seem less sad, and warmer than she can recall ever seeing them. She sighs softly before she finds the breath to ask him the question she's not been brave enough to ask even a close friend. Because she and Remus seem similar enough in their emotional intelligence, as well as their regular intellignece. Because they get each other without having to say anything at all sometimes, and she now realizes this is why he gets so frustrated with her presence sometimes. Why it's easy for her to get mad at him, and why it's easy to ignore one another at times.

"Profes—Remus?"

He raises an impressed eyebrow at her and smiles, leaning close enough that their foreheads could have touched in this moment. "Yes, Hermione?" There's the mischievous smile he gave Lily earlier, as though he's waiting to be sucked into something amusing and improper, like a prank or joke.

Her mouth is almost numb at him using her given name for the second time in the evening, but she recovers quickly, and asks with a more sure tone in her voice. "Have you ever felt so alone...when the person that's supposed to be closest to you…the person that's supposed to love you the best...is in the same room, and it's like you're not even there at all?"

Remus can only nod, transfixed by the way her mouth and lips move around each word in her question. "Truly and utterly." His hand makes a small fist, clutches her shirt's fabric at the small of her back in frustration, wanting to pull her closer, wanting to say something more eloquent, wanting to growl against her neck and consume her.

But the song ends and he removes himself from her so abruptly that she's dismayed.

He reaches into his back pocket to pull out the paperback he'd carried earlier. "Sirius told me that I should like to come and wish you a happy birthday. I didn't wish to come for reasons I'm sure are obvious to you by now. But I at least wanted to bring this to you. It's not new, but I thought it would mean something to you, all the same." He presses the book into her small hands. "I've had it a very long time, and I feel like you're one of very few who could truly appreciate it for what it's worth."

Hermione hears everything he doesn't say and swallows too hard, fighting at the sting of tears threatening at the corners of her eyes, and she notices his own have taken on a glassy, if not misty, look of their own.

"I understand...Professor."

He smiles sadly at her and nods before shoving his hands back into his pockets. "I'll see you next week, Miss Granger." His head is cocked to the side again as he studies her. It's how he holds himself in the classroom and in his office when he's listening to her intently with such pleased interest. "Please remember to return my floppy disks." And he turns from her, his posture seemingly defeated, as she mutters a 'yes sir,' that she's not even sure he's heard at all.

When he disappears through the crowd of people, Hermione doesn't even have a chance to peruse the book he's give her before a voice breaks her out of her reverie and momentary incapability to process what just happened to her.

"So, are you fucking him yet?" Ron comes up behind her and his voice is casual, but it's hard to miss the naked scowls he gives her for her faraway and almost daydreamy gaze she holds upon the book (without seeing it at all) that Professor Lupin just left in her possession.

"Excuse me?"

"Your teacher bloke. Harry told me that's who he was when we saw him saunter on up to you in your cozy little corner. I suppose that's what you're off doing all the time? Being shut off somewhere with him? And the reason why you aren't ringing me up as much. Makes sense. He's all you could talk about when you first got there." Ron's voice is flat when he tells her this and she knows he's only finding the most hurtful possible things to say because of his insecurity issues.

Hermione thinks to bring up the many incidents of Ron's absolutely flirty coworker, Lavender Brown, managing to come over and drink with him most nights until the crack of dawn.

But she doesn't bring it up. Because she doesn't wish to do this here.

"I am _not_ sleeping with Remus...Professor Lupin. I would never. He is engaged. And at any rate, _we ,_ " she gestures at Ron and then herself, "are together." She hopes he didn't notice that slight beat, the slight hesitation, in between the latter two statements.

Especially the second to last one. If read any closer, it could totally insinuate that if she were available and if Professor Lupin were available, then she would be sleeping with him. But that isn't the case.

...Right?

"I'm sorry that I've given you the wrong impression, Ron." But Hermione knows this isn't even a half-truth. The inexplicable tug she's been feeling in development for her professor grows only more painfully stronger the more time she spends with him, regardless of whatever setting they're in. And she hates it. Because it's as equally terrible as it is wonderful. "You can stay here for the rest of the party if you like. But I'm going to head home. I'll leave the door unlocked for you."

Clutching her new (old) book in her hand, she brushes past him and makes a swift exit without saying goodbye to Sirius or any of the others, and nobody notices her absence for the rest of the evening.

XXXX

Lily doesn't go home after leaving Hermione Granger's birthday party, and instead finds herself with hands like ice as she grips her car's steering wheel while driving to the college.

The library stays open if not twenty-four hours, then until the dead of night for all the students needing a good, distraction-free space to get all their work done in. The students working the desk were so grateful for her when she told them to go home and get a decent amount of sleep—she knew for sure that they both had massive exams in the morning. Otherwise, they probably would have showed up to the party tonight.

Not many people are in the library at the moment, and it doesn't seem like many else are going to show up, and she thinks to shut it down come midnight. The lack of students is unusual, if not odd, but then she reminds herself where many of them probably are and for a moment, she feels terrible for Hermione. She didn't ask Sirius to throw that party and to basically invite the entire town. She'd have a stern talking-to with him later.

Lily doesn't mind pulling later hours at the library. If anything, it warms her to be here and reminds her of fond memories of when she was a student. Plus, with so few patrons needing her assistance and no staff and faculty to deal with so late after regular business hours, she could enjoy the time to get some reading done. Harry, who stays over most nights with her to keep her company, is still at the party. And James said he was going to leave for work sometime after she had planned to.

James has been pulling longer, later hours at the station lately. The police department at Godric's Hollow have been called into the neighboring city (that houses the hospital she used to work at) on a mysterious case of a disappearance. The city police believe that the young woman (eighteen or nineteen) ran away from home (to escape a particularly cruel boyfriend, according to her worried friends) and inquired James if anyone new in town has shown up.

The only unfamiliar young woman he could think of was Hermione, but she was older than the girl in question, and the girl had gone missing some weeks after Hermione showed up. James told the city's sheriff that he would make nightly rounds in their expansive wooded area, and James had left the party early to meet up with two other officers to do that.

Lily finds herself ignoring her book in favor of nervously twisting her wedding band around her finger with her free hand.

"Hello, Sev," Lily says, not looking back at him as she finishes organizing the re- turned books sitting on a nearby cart behind the front desk. Bless those student workers, but they really do make it harder on themselves, just throwing the books haphazardly onto the carts and then being confused later when it's time to return them to their proper floors and shelves without having sorted them properly.

"Good evening, Lily." He checks the battered watch on his wrist. "Though, I suppose, I could almost tell you 'good morning'?"

She turns to look at him and brushes her beautiful and gleaming red hair from her face with the back of her hand, then tucks a strand behind her ear. She chuckles at the sight of the slight smile playing at his mouth at his sarcastic remark about it being so late (or early), at half past midnight.

"Your boy was in here earlier."

"My boy?"

"Reggie Black."

Severus is taken aback at the way she's said his name like that. He isn't sure many people in his own circle (besides Narcissa Malfoy, at least) refer to him as that. Perhaps when they were younger, maybe.

"Not my boy." Severus mumbles this from behind his hand as his fingertips rub almost nervously at his face. He settles with his arms crossed over his torso, eyebrow quirked at her. "Burning the midnight oil, are we?"

Lily chuckles slightly at him, twirls her hair around a finger and then stops abruptly. Something about his deep voice rumbling out of his chest, even in such a snide remark, touches something inside of her that seems to have been missing for so long.

And then she realizes that it's just Severus.

Just Sev that she's missed, and she's glad that he's come, late as it is and all.

"No, I just happened to show up at Hermione Granger's birthday party and witnessed some of our student workers there this evening, absolutely unfit to come back to their late evening shifts, so I decided to pick up the slack for them."

Severus shakes his head. "Lushes, all of them."

"I'm surprised you didn't come."

"What? To the girl's party? Lily, when have I ever been one for a party?"

"You were that night after homecoming, when I stole my dad's bottle of scotch and we drank in the basement?"

"Until your sister barged right in and screamed for your parents to come kick me out."

"And you never drank ever again."

Severus's eyes go wide and he presses his long, pale fingertips against his chest and dark, black sweater. "I am astonishingly triggered every time I so much as hear the word 'beer'."

"You are incorrigible."

"And you still love it, apparently." Severus's mouth slams shut and he nibbles too hard on his tongue, causing a sting and a coppery taste of blood. 'Good,' he tells himself, 'you stop the shit right now. Or you'll be thinking of her all night. You've been doing so well since your last visit.'

God, how long has it been since they had any banter at all? She knows she's missed this as much as just talking to him about the books that they've been reading alone or together.

He chews at the bottom of his lip and slides one of the books he's pulled from the shelf upstairs and thumbs through it almost furiously, pretending to search for something.

"She's a nice girl," Lily tells him, wrinkling her nose at the off-putting titles. Some of what he studies frightens her, and she's told him before, especially when they were younger, but he rarely listened. "James and Sirius were right about her."

Severus hurts himself with how hard he rolls his eyes at the mentioning of the inescapable Sirius Black. "Why, pray tell, would I ever go to a function meant for a student that wasn't sanctioned by the school?"

Lily shrugs. "Minerva showed up, so did Albus. Remus was there."

A shadow of glee passes his face at the mention of Remus Lupin. "Lupin was there, was he?" Severus has heard whispers around the corridors of Lupin and the girl lingering, standing too closely, laughing too familiarly, and him bending too closely over her to examine her work. He especially knows how Miss Parkinson and Miss Greengrass feel about Miss Granger—their shrill giggles and too loud whispers permeate the walls of his office everytime they sit out in the corridor to wait on an advising appointment with a neighboring professor.

Though, he's not heard other faculty bring it up, whether it be in front of Lupin, or behind his back and to one another. Severus doesn't put much stock into gossip and assumes on the other girls' parts, it's for jealousy of Miss Granger's prowess in her doctoral program that they tease her so, and that this is the most scandalous (if you squint) thing about her. From what Draco tells him, Granger is quite afflicted with Chronic Boring Syndrome. And if an affair was to be had, she was probably going at it with local idiot, Sirius Black.

Lily finishes rooting through a nearby desk draw for a usable pen after scratching at loose sheets of paper with several others that quit working, yet are still in the pen cup. She looks up and scowls at him at his remark about Remus. Out of the entire gang, Remus was always the kindest to Severus (as far as Lily knew) and she loathed that Severus is still unable to cut Remus some slack just because of who Remus still associates himself with.

"Of course Remus was there," she snaps, and he actually jerks his head back in response to her sudden change in tone and scowls as he wraps his arms tighter around himself. She clears her throat before going on. "He's her mentor of sorts. And it was at Sirius's bar." Lily chides herself that Sirius would have corrected her that it's actually a microbrewery. "Tonks was there, as well. Hermione's boyfriend, too."

"A true buffoon, I assume."

"Didn't get to meet him, really. And why do you say that?"

Severus doesn't tell her that that was Draco's exact words to him about the boyfriend. What he tells her instead is, "That girl seems to be a magnet for the type."

Now it's Lily's turn to roll her eyes painfully, for it was a subdued jab at her husband and their friends. She pulls the stack of the remaining books he's brought her to herself, flips them all face down, and goes to the back of each to pull out the small card near the rear cover. Once retrieved, she slides all the cards over and hands him an ink pen with a twirling flourish and he rolls his eyes dramatically.

"I do loathe signing so many of these bloody things," he mutters as he slams the last book shut and exchanges it with her for the pen. He hunches over her desk, his hair falling into a curtain around his face, his nose almost pressed into the card, and scribbles out his name in his familiar spidery hand.

Lily fights down an absolutely absurd urge to push his hair from his face and instead settles upon teasing him, "Then maybe don't check so many out at any given moment. Pretty soon, you'll need a trolley to take them all with you and let me tell you, it is not in the library nor your department's budget to purchase one for you."

He slides the cards back to her to keep and nearly growls when she gives him the last one. "No worries, Potter," he drawls, signing with an impudent flourish, and drops the pen onto the desk in a clatter. "I, unlike many, have become a millionaire as a tenured professor. This establishment shall be swimming in more trolleys that it will know what to do with, all in due time."

"Yeah, yeah." She stamps the due dates onto each book's sleeve. "They say they're going to switch everything over to a computerized checking out system, but I'm fighting tooth and nail to make sure it never comes here, or to any other institution you'll ever work at." She does not bring up the usual response to society's ever-expanding presence of technology found in the abundant, fearful whispers of the Y2K crash or bug or whatever it is; she knows exactly how he feels about this 'nonsense', per their last coffee visit.

He glares at her, forcing back a titter of a laugh at this absolute cheek. He clears his throat and looks away from her brilliant eyes before they burn him alive, or warm his heart any more than they already have. "What did _Reggie_ want?"

"He didn't tell you?" She furrows her brows as she pushes his books closer to him. "He said he was looking for something for you?"

"Haven't seen him in days," Severus lies.

He speaks far more often to Regulus Black than anyone else and they both know it. It's been like that since they were children, and especially after they dropped one another for years.

The last Severus saw of Regulus was back at Malfoy Manor the night he failed to properly seduce ('if _that's_ what one could call it,' Severus thinks) Hermione Granger and bring her back to the Family. Tom Riddle—or 'Father', as he urges them all to call him; even worse, the entirely too laughable, 'Voldemort'—was severely displeased with Regulus that night and punished the younger man in front of his peers with a completely nude lashing like no other.

 _After everyone had gone to sleep, Regulus tore himself away from the manor and dragged himself to Severus's meager cottage (near shack, really). Severus's home is miles away from the manor, hidden in the woods that separated him from the expansive estate. Regulus was bruised and bloodied that night, from all sides, including his brother's monstrous friend._

 _Severus dragged the boy inside and proceeded to give him a bath of sorts. They sat in his kitchen and Severus dipped a washrag into a bowl of hot, soapy water, and gently scrubbed at Regulus's dangerously open skin until all the blood and grim was gone, with a grim look on his face, and with tears stained upon Regulus's cheeks._

' _All over a girl,' Severus spat at his younger friend as he dabbed at his severely lacerated back, bottom, chest, and thighs with a stinging, but wondrous healing salve and soft cloth. They were on their knees, facing one another, and Severus tried his damnedest to avoid Regulus's eyes the entire time._

' _Not just any girl,' Regulus's voice had been hoarse. And his soft, throaty and pained moans in response to their contact were almost erotic as Severus worked the medical ointment onto his friend after washing his bloodied and dirty wounds. Severus's ministrations brought his hands up to Regulus's collarbone, and Regulus took Severus's slim wrists into his hands, causing Severus to drop the dark and slightly damp cloth. 'Sev, what if we...what if we just left?'_

' _I have told you time and time again, Regulus, that I cannot leave. You know this bond is for a lifetime of service to..._ him _.'_

' _I can't do this anymore, Severus,' Regulus whispered, his grip on the older man's wrists had slackened. 'I don't think I ever wanted to to begin with. This is madness, and none of it makes sense. I can't do this, Sev. I'm serious. I-I'm thinking of running out.'_

 _Severus could not determine if the younger man was an absolute coward for his desire to flee, or, if this was the bravest way to reject the cult of Death Eaters. Severus resisted an urge to slap some sense into the younger man, but instead let out a hefty sigh, looking from his closed window and locked front door and back to Regulus. The silence was all consuming and maddening and he couldn't be sure if they were utterly alone with one another. He lowered his voice even more, if possible. 'Don't you dare say that to anyone else, anywhere else in this town. Do you understand me? We never had this conversation.'_

Lily doesn't believe the lie Severus has told her in the slightest, as Severus is locked and lost in his own thoughts once again. And she didn't believe the lie that Regulus had told her when he mumbled that the book on the occult he checked out was something Severus needed for a class.

"It was good to see you, Severus," Lily says more sharply than she intended to. "But I'm about to close the library, so you may want to head out now."

He isn't taken aback at this at all and gathers his books up into his thin arms, and his stooped frame gives off an air of annoyance when he huffs out, "Always a pleasure," and swoops out of the room.

Lily sighs and places her head in her hands. Why is he always so difficult?

She goes through the motions of shutting the library down, and her mind is immediately brought back to James and the dance they shared at Hermione's party. It's been a terribly long time since they'd done anything like that together. How many times had they swayed to no music at all (except the music in their heads or whatever off beat melody James would hum) in their kitchen, in their bedroom, in the living room, in front of Harry when he was smaller?

Lily hasn't realized how much she's missed these things with her husband and recognizes that perhaps she's been too hard on him for too long. It has been entirely too long since he'd given Sirius the money to buy the old pub, and maybe it's time to let that go, she reasons with herself. Because ever since she found out about that, she isn't picking some battles and letting other things go: everything has been a constant struggle and she has been unwilling to cut him any slack at all, but James has been nothing but patient (much like when he was trying to court her, but in a more subdued way).

Perhaps they could talk about that tonight, she wonders, as she finishes locking up the library and heads back to her car on this too cold night. If anything, she'll be glad to have James in bed with her later to keep her warm.

XXXX

Remus has sobered up, standing at the bar while drinking copious amounts of water by the time Dora comes over to him and announces that she's ready to go and that she doesn't feel very well after drinking some foul concoction that Sirius made for her.

She leans into Remus as he leads her outside and she clutches at his arm while he unlocks the car and sees to it that she gets in all right. He sighs heavily on the way to his side and starts the engine without looking at her.

"I wondered if we could talk for a bit," Dora says, and she leans forward to shut the radio off, so all they are left is the near silence of the night and the wind whistling and the car's slight sputtering sounds.

Dora has a lot of words for him, and Remus is at that level of fatigue (socially, mentally, and emotionally) where he really just wants to eat a handful of something salty and then go to sleep. But as soon as Tonks mentions Hermione's name when he finally parks in front of their home and leads her to the front door, he perks up immediately and feels as if he could vomit.

He doesn't know how she's learned Hermione's name because she's never fully listened to anything he's ever told her before, particularly names. Although, Remus mentions Hermione often and talks at length about the work they've been doing together since the start of term. Remus just assumed that these occurrences in his life were just added to the list of things that Tonks knows about vaguely, but not enough to give some kind of detailed summary about what Remus is up to these days.

"I just don't quite understand something, but maybe you can help me figure it out, Remus." Her voice is sharp and devoid of any evidence that only moments ago, she was tearing up the dance floor and dwindling supply of alcohol with her cousin.

And the _way_ she says this shames him for a multitude of reasons.

It doesn't really scare him, and her expression doesn't really scare him when he's turned on the lights to get good look at her. It's her tone that really bothers him...she seems to be going for some kind of schoolmarm scolding a small child in such a way to scare him half to death, like as though she's about to call his parents on him for behaving poorly. And if he wishes to be truly petulant with her in turn, he knows that he could bring up the handsy and inappropriate physical interactions she had with many other men this evening, but he doesn't bring it up. Because he wants to hear what she has to say to him and about him. He wants to hear what's been bothering her for weeks, but that she's been waiting on him to just randomly read her mind about and fix without her asking, without them communicating.

And in the back of his mind, he is daring her, he is begging her to leave him or tell him to leave her. Because he knows, and they both know, he is too cowardly to do it himself.

She is completely irate with him now in his silence, but he thinks he's being reasonable in avoiding a hasty reply. Because she has a bad habit of speaking with an upward inflection, ending most sentences on a high note that sounds as though she still has so much more to say. So he waits for her to say it. And, really, she should be used to his spacing out in these moments because they happen frequently enough that she should know this is just who he is by now.

But he's doing it again, the spacing out, and he knows that it lasts for too long this time, and that everyone else is always so painfully aware of it when it happens. And with her, in this moment, it is not the best time for it to have lasted this long. She thinks him to be recalling and revising all the lies he's espoused in recent months.

"Remus!" She actually snaps her fingers in front of his face.

He jerks back and blinks rapidly. "Go on, Nymphadora, and I'll see if I'm able to figure out this conundrum of yours. Of course, if I'm able to, I shall help you in any way that you need." He doesn't know whose voice this is, or where this thoroughly mechanical, near-rehearsed script has come from.

Dora does not seem to be calmed or even slightly impressed by it, for she simply waves him off and goes on. "I just don't understand how Hermione Granger just swooped into town one day and now, all of a sudden, she's everyone's golden girl. I haven't the faintest clue what Sirius sees in her at all."

Remus wants to tell her that she, Dora, is not as close to Sirius as she thinks they are. Remus wants to say _many_ things in this moment. But all he is able to do is think back to his talk with Sirius days ago. Back when Sirius asked Remus how Hermione had been doing in class. And Remus called her fantastic. Not a fantastic student, or not that she's producing fantastic work. But that she's,

"Fantastic," he mumbles, staring at the floor before looking Dora straight in the eye to say, "Hermione Granger is fantastic. She is brilliant and kind, and she is a gift to the college. She is a breath of fresh air, and we are all just very glad to have her around. You should not fault others because everyone else adores them, Dora."

The silence is deafening and Remus hears a slight ringing in his ears as if he's been struck in the head by a sports bat or something.

Dora can only raise her eyebrows in an 'I'm-not-even-surprised' kind of way before letting out a rude chuckle. She licks her lips and squints her eyes at him as she chooses her next words carefully. "If you go to that conference with her in December, I will not stay with you, Remus."

"You know how important this is to me and my work." He doesn't know how he's able to make a coherent sentence when his entire stomach has dropped out of his body. In what? Relief? Dread? Some mourning sense of loss?

Dora holds up her hand, palm facing him to silence him (like she has done many times before), and cuts in. "How important your _work_ is to you?" She pauses for a beat, wrestling with the next bit, "Or how important _she_ is to you, Remus?"

Silence. And even worse one than before. The world could have ended outside at this very moment, and he wouldn't have noticed.

Dora scoffs in disgust, but her face is somewhat satisfied. "I _knew_ it. Your face says it all."

And she doesn't seem angry, just disappointed. Which is worse. He'd rather her start shouting and throwing things, even a punch to his face.

Remus wants to tell her that Hermione is his student and his assistant and that nothing has ever happened between them. But that, like what Hermione has told Ron, is not even a half-truth. Remus thinks of a line from the Frankenstein novel in this moment and how it's never applied more to his life than now, 'There is something at work in my soul which I do not understand.' He does not understand what Hermione did to him when she walked into his life, but the monster in his chest tells him she's what he's been moving toward and waiting for his entire life without even realizing it.

Remus tries to say something to her again, but Dora cuts him off once more. "I understood that you were a bit mysterious when I first met you."

'You first met me when you were a student yourself,' Remus thinks, but doesn't say aloud.

"But that's one of the things that attracted me to you," Dora continues. "And I know everyone has their secrets, but I've come to realize that you have too many. It's not just the new girl."

'It is,' Remus thinks again, but stays quiet.

Dora says, "You have too many secrets. Please don't think me a fool and that I never noticed that since we've been living together you don't come home for days at a time. It happens every month. I assumed you were out with your friends. But when I asked Cousin Sirius if you were with him one time, he'd told me he hadn't heard from you in days." She sits down at the edge of the coffee table and stretches her legs out, crossing them at the ankle, and runs her hands through her magenta hair. "And when I asked James at work, he'd said the same. And the more I thought about it, the more I was so sure that you had a girlfriend outside of town who you go to visit for days at a time. And I could almost live with that, live with you cheating on me. But what I can't deal with and what I can't put up with are the lies, and the way you hide things. You're supposed to love me more than anyone in the world, and you can't even trust me with your secrets."

He's crossed his arms in front of him, holding himself tightly, waiting for the rest to come.

"The cheating would explain why we haven't had any kind of sex in almost a year. And with _her_ , it would explain why you haven't touched or even kissed me properly in months."

Remus is listening to everything she's saying, and he wishes he could tell her the truth. This is the first and only time he'd ever wished that. But she is not his mate, and she wouldn't understand or even believe him like his mate should. He'd tried imprinting upon her over the years, thinking if they were together long enough, he could trick his senses into letting it happen. But it just never happened. He can't even tell her that once he'd realized she wasn't his mate after all, it was painful for him to be intimate with her and that it felt so wrong—that it felt like he was cheating on someone he hadn't even met yet.

And how do you tell someone that your nature is twisted into something only meant to exist in fiction?

"I won't ask you where you go every month, Remus. Because I no longer care." She moves her hands from her hair and crosses her arms against her chest and gives him a pitying look. "But I will ask you to pack your bags and leave."

XXXX

Lights are flashing through Sirius's windows through the shut curtains and into his house on this dark and late hour. He rolls his eyes, assuming that some kids must be out playing a ridiculous game of flashlight tag or that someone is fooling around with their car's headlights. Sirius squints against the glare and turns his television on— something he doesn't really do that often anymore now that he has the luxury of spending his free time with Hermione when others are busy or pulling late hours at their respective jobs.

He stands with one hand on his hips, his free thumb mashing the remote control's buttons, flipping through channels, before settling upon an old cartoon about cave people or something. Not his favorite, but Sirius is one of those people who like to watch something while he's eating, and he needs to get something in his stomach. Like yesterday. He'd already eaten the rest of Hermione's birthday cake and then got sick on it at the bar.

He moves to the kitchen and roots around in a cabinet for an old jar of peanut butter and wrinkles his nose at it. He'd rather have a steak or something, but peanut butter is the fastest thing. Not even waiting to get a knife and some bread to make a sandwich, he tucks into it with a spoon and eats it directly from the jar and groans over how absolutely childish this is.

He makes it back to the television and just stands there, craning his neck down to watch it as he shovels bites of peanut butter in his mouth and thinks about what a terrible and thirsty idea this was. He drops the jar onto his coffee table and flicks through channels once more.

The knock at his front door comes lightly enough to take his attention away from his spoon. The knock tells him that someone is there, but also the pattern of it lets him know it's a friend coming to call this late at night. Sirius tears himself away from the television playing dastardly and dangerous sounding newsreels indicating that the world should be ending soon. Any and all signs of the apocalypse are supposedly coming at the end of December, when the great computer and technological crashes are predicted to come.

Sirius's face (and insides) are numb with the amount of alcohol swirling in his system at the moment as his heavy lidded eyes keep trying to focus upon the digital screen in front of him all but screeches about the end being near. His head is heavy on his neck and it rests in a sluggish way, tilted forward as he brings yet another aluminum can of beer (left on the coffee table from earlier in the evening) to his lips and drinks more of what he does not need for the rest of the night.

Sirius ignores the light knock upon his door, figuring it to be Remus, hoping to come inside Sirius's small home space all bleary eyed on his own and drunk enough to finally utter the name of the young woman plaguing his dreams at night. Sirius does not care that Remus feels some kind of way about the young woman, no. But, Sirius does care that the only times he hears about this woman is when Remus has been drinking to some extent at some point: Hermione's name escapes the professor's lips when he's had either a beer or two or a six pack or more of shitty beer.

Because he's too much of a coward to deal with the important things in his waking hours.

Sirius before anyone else is totally aware of the freeing act that alcohol has on individuals and the admissions they make to others in the dead of night: hell, he'd been one of these people more than he is able to count (especially in this current moment), but he is not up for this, especially when Sirius should have been in bed hours ago, alongside other respectable people.

Sirius tilts his head back with great difficulty and tips the cold metal lip against the warmth of his own lips and guzzles more flat beer, squinting at the disgusting taste that it brings, but feeling like he needs to keep his too-intoxicated buzz going.

The knocks at the front door don't go away, and Sirius decides that it's time for bed after a quick trip to the kitchen to eat some plain pieces of bread in place of the terrible peanut butter and drink a regular glass of tap water, until he hears a near strangled voice call out from the other side of his door.

"Siri?"

Rarely does the shortened version of his name pass through anyone's lips, let alone belong to the voice that he hears tonight: James Potter's. And behind that voice is no small pronunciation, no timidity, like there usually is when he uses this shortened version of Sirius's name (often during times he wants something). No, instead, it's hardened, rough, and all business.

Sirius stumbles over to the front door, placing his palms flat against its frame, and looks out the peep hole to see his friend standing straight-backed, jaw tightened, and in full police uniform, twirling his hat in his trembling hands. James, like Lily, had a later shift of work to get to and shit out on the party earlier than everyone else.

"Jamie," Sirius answers cheekily to James's previous attempts to get his friend to answer the door. "What's the magic word?"

James moves closer to the door, shoving his own eye into the peep hole and knocking his glasses askew as he does so. "The magic word is ' _now_ '!"

Sirius pulls his front door back wide enough to invite not only James inside, but also an entire angry mob had they showed up with the cop. Sirius give his friend a too amused grin, stuttering upon his feet, and then steadies himself against the threshold of the open door.

"Evening."

"Good evening, Sirius," but James is still all business and doesn't seem too happy to see his best friend, which does not happen often at all. There's a hard, dark glint in James's eyes as he looks Sirius up and down, as though scanning him for something.

And Sirius is now realizing just how totally out of the ordinary it is for James to be calling so late, and this immediately sobers Sirius up. Not all the way, but quite a bit to where he can speak and hold himself like a proper person, though his awareness is not as sharp as it would be had he been driving on his motorbike. And even more sobering than James's appearance and demeanor is the way that he just sized him up. The last time something like that happened was when they were kids, and it was right after Sirius would have actually hurt Severus Snape in a stupid, rival fueled prank had James not intervened at the last minute.

"Hate to be the bearer of bad news," James finally admits to his oldest and dearest friend, looking up at him slightly through their small height difference. He shuts the door behind him and walks forward, invading Sirius's space enough to cause Sir- ius to walk backwards and into the nearby armchair. "But the squad and I found a body out in the forest tonight. Got the call as soon as I checked into the station."

There's a flush that goes through his body at these words, and Sirius is completely sober at this point. He drops the can of shitty, warm beer he was so adamantly clutching with his hands only moments before. "Do what now?" Sirius asks for clarification— perhaps he had not heard properly the first time. Sirius falls onto the couch behind him and clutches at the armrest.

James sits at the edge of the heavy coffee table and plants his hands on his knees, his hat laying next to him. James's hands rub his face briskly, fingers moving behind his glasses to get at his eyes. When he opens them again, he looks at Sirius with an al- most dead-eyed stare. "There's a body, Sirius. In the woods. Amelia and Edgar Bones are prepping to have it taken in as we speak."

Sirius's heart and mind are absolutely racing—he feels the blood throbbing at his temple and nerves coiling in his throat and stomach. His body lets loose a fever flush, and his mouth is unbelievably dry for someone who has spent the last several hours drinking nonstop. There's no way this could be true—people's bodies just don't lay dead in the places they're not supposed to be in this town. People grow old and die in their homes, in the hospital, or move away and die elsewhere. This just isn't something that happens in Godric's Hollow.

Sirius can only throw his head back and give a great bark of a laugh. "You're putting me on. Granted, it's a bit early for Halloween pranks, James. Good one." And he's actually wiping a tear away from his eye with a knuckle.

James reaches out and grabs the wrist of that hand and holds it tightly in his smaller fist. "I'm absolutely serious—don't you fucking say it—right now." He gives one more good, hard squeeze and lets his friend go. "The lads and I found a body in the woods. We were on a regular patrol and worst case scenario, we hoped to catch some kids out past curfew and send them home. You know, loads of them try to stay out later and later before it gets too cold to be outside at all. Frank's boot caught something sprawled out beside an overgrown tree root and when I shined my light..." James actually shudders from the memory. He covers his face with his hands again and speaks in a muffled tone, eyes closed again. "We think it's Regulus. We need you to come I.D. the body, and then I'm afraid I'm going to have to take you in for questioning at the station."

XXXX


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Summary: In which Remus tries to turn to an old friend in his time of need; Remus and Hermione try to figure out what happened to Sirius; Sirius is held in an interrogation room by James; and Hermione is offered an interesting proposition by Daphne and Pansy.

A/N: Apologies for the delay. I was participating in NaNoWriMo this month, working on an original novel and had to put this on the back burner while working on that and working on writing that I got paid for. This is a shorter chapter and probably my least favorite one out of the bunch of them. Thank you for your continued support. And sorry for the delay, Daphne(guest), I hope you enjoy this chapter!

A/N 2: Also, I'm from the south in the USA, so I think I have people say, "Do what, now?" in here, and what that means where I'm from regionally is something like 'excuse me, could you repeat yourself' and sometimes it's used to ask someone to clarify what they mean or to actually repeat what they said because you didn't hear them the first time. I don't know if people use that phrase elsewhere, but thought to explain it anyway.

Trigger warnings: mentions of child abuse.

Disclaimer: As always, this belongs to J.K. Rowling, am borrowing characters, not making profit off of this.

XXX

Remus shoulders his rucksack a bit tighter against his body—he'll be back to collect the rest of his belongings at a later date, preferably at a time that Dora won't be home—the biggest issue was where to go. He'd entertained the thought to sleep in the car, but he was certain that Dora may need it for work in the morning. She had its extra key, after all, and she was quite prone to borrowing it without a moment's notice. And, with the way their conversation went, he still feels the slight twinges of guilt coursing through his stomach. He at least owes her some sort of support to hopefully make up for the way things have gone between them as of late. Not that he truly believes that the decline of their relationship has been his fault entirely—these sorts of breaks just happen sometimes, he tells himself, and he knows he'll feel better once he can talk to a friend about it. He'll call Sirius or James in the morning. Maybe James. He's not sure if he's ready to speak to Sirius about such things yet, given how one of their latest intimate conversations about his personal life had gone.

Remus had thought about walking to campus and breaking into the Humanities building to sleep in his office once again. At this point, he's familiar with one of the side doors that lead into the stairwells that one of the custodians almost always neglects to secure once everyone has left the building—it's how he's been getting in after hours for a too long of a time now. But he didn't want to make that a habit, even though he's already done it more than enough, and he's certain that Albus or Minerva are quite aware of his previous transgressions of doing this. In reality, he is slightly homeless—something that he thought he'd beaten when he moved in with Dora.

He now regrets his past refusal to sign his name on the lease, as well. Her insistence on that matter had jarred him at first, and he couldn't understand why she'd suggested it at all. Perhaps this is something she'd foreseen happening and she had been looking out for him to make sure he'd have some place to stay for a short while after their inevitable parting. And now everything is just too raw for her to even look at him, so it seems, and his own sickened stomach feelings makes it hard for him to see her, too. He feels there will be rougher times with her to come—that she'll have far more hurtful things to say to him.

He ducks underneath a nearby awning to escape the brisk fog filled mist and the sporadic pelts of freezing falling rain. There is a beautiful smoky grey haze lingering as a backdrop behind the flowing embers of the gas lit lamps that measure the length of downtown. In the dim streetlight's glow, he can tell just how late it is (nearly two in the morning) and he wonders briefly if Hermione is still at her party and if she enjoyed it at all. He wonders if she enjoyed their strange dalliance to the song they shared; he knows he did, but he also knows that this is something he's going to have to process and deal with at a later time—preferably some time before he sees her again in class or before she comes to his office for one of their private fellowship sessions. He groans audibly when he realizes she has research material to give back to him and that he will probably be seeing her much sooner than he expects to and sooner than he would like to.

Remus doesn't really know where he's going once he walks out from under the temporary shelter the awning gives him. He turns up the collar of his coat against the wind and the fine mist trying its best to soak into his skin and walks so far past the shops that he's out of the downtown district and away from the lights. He's not sure where his feet are taking him until he hangs a left down a narrow and darkened street and he finds his fist knocking lightly on the front door of a small cottage situated on a sparsely populated side street just on the outskirts of their small downtown area.

He plunges his damp hands into his pockets and hands his head. It throbs with the promise of a migraine to come and his shoulders ache like he's carried a bag much heavier than the one on his back. He slides it off and sits it upon the ground and it falls into a resting position against his shin. He knocks louder this time and is surprised that his friend actually answers his call, but what's even more surprising is the fact that Peter Pettigrew is dressed in day time clothes and looks not only well rested, but as though he's been up for hours.

Peter is just as surprised to see Remus standing there in the middle of the night as Remus is that he showed up at his front door. Peter gives a small, half smile (a smirk, really, which is unfitting to the round and still boyish features his face holds) and crosses his arms against his chest, leaning into the door's threshold.

"Haven't seen you in a while, Remus." He says this conversationally, like he's mentioning something like the passing weather or something mildly interesting he read in the newspaper.

Remus takes his hands out of his pockets and pushes his hair back from his fore- head, one hand hanging onto the back of his neck by the end of it. "I know. I'm sorry— I've been busy."

There's Peter's smirk again and all at once, Remus knows that he's made the wrong decision in coming here this evening. "I'm sure you have been very busy," his old friend says, eyeing Remus's taller frame up and down. "Word's gotten around that you've taken a student as a lover."

"It's just gossip is all," Remus murmurs, stooping to snatch up his rucksack with the intent to leave, to go try Sirius's place. "I trust those who know me well to not believe in any of it." He shoulders his bag and goes to leave without so much as a goodbye.

"Still must hold a bit of truth if you've left Nymphadora over it."

Remus turns slowly around and sees a darkness behind Peter's bright blue-eyed gaze and he edges closer to his front door. "Do what now?"

"Nymphadora called, looking for you. She said she tried Lily to see if you'd been there, and Lily advised her to try here on the off chance that you'd be with another friend before running to your office. Nymphadora assumed that you'd run to that student of yours; Lily didn't have much to say on the matter for that."

So many things raced through Remus's head in a split second. If Dora had told him to get out, why would she be calling everyone's phones in the middle of the night just to get a hold of him? What couldn't wait until tomorrow, unless she wanted him to get the rest of his things out of the house tonight? And why would Lily tell her to call Peter instead of Sirius?

"I suppose you're looking for a place to spend the night, and you came here be- cause you didn't wish to inconvenience anyone else. Meaning that I'm quite literally the last person you'd come calling for help, and that I've always been the friend whose time never mattered—that no one care whether they inconvenience me or not."

"Do you really want to start this right now? Because we can go, if you'd like to, Peter. Yes, I'd hope to spend the night somewhere, if only to sleep in something that isn't a chair until about six, and then I'll be out of your hair. But I can tell that you have so many other things to say to me—things of which I do not have the time for at the moment, but would be more than willing to discuss and deal with in the future."

"Why don't you go run off to your little girl tonight? I'm sure she can tell you exact- ly what's going on. From what I've heard, she's been balancing her time between you and Sirius quite nicely."

Remus's fingers curl into his palm so tightly that he feels his forearm strain against the tension, and he goes to hit Peter. But at the last minute, he instead snatches the front of Peter's halfway buttoned flannel shirt in between his fingers and balls the fabric into his grip. And he wants to say so many things to him in this moment, just so many nasty, vile things to wipe that putrid smirk that's taken up residence upon his features. The grasp moves Peter enough to make him stand on the tips of his toes, but not quite stumble or fall forwards. But Remus doesn't say a thing and just gives Peter a hard glare, a fire fueled fury burning behind his amber and golden eyes. And Peter actually shrinks away from Remus because of this gaze, and screws his face up as he flinches away from Remus and braces himself to be punched in the face. It would not be the first time a friend has attacked him, after all, and that first time was done by Sirius and within good reason. It was the last time they'd seen one another, and Remus now knows that this will be the last time he'll see Peter.

A long bout of silence passes between the two of them and somewhere behind Remus, the rain picks up. It will be pouring soon, and with electricity flouting the air— rumbling from a distance tells him this, and he knows that he must find somewhere to stay inside for the night.

"It's getting closer to the full moon," Peter breathes and gently pries Remus's hold off of him, his own fingers working delicately to loosen the white knuckled grip. He looks up into his old friend's face, this time something resembling a flushing bout of fright across his own. "Isn't it?"

"I haven't come here to eat you, Peter," Remus deadpans. "I've already had dinner."

Peter doesn't laugh at this joke, of which Remus is sure Sirius would have loved. And now he knows that he needs Sirius much more in this moment than he thought at the start of this obnoxious trek across town. And if Sirius isn't at his own place, then he must be at Hermione's. So, he shall go to see her after all. But only to see Sirius. And maybe stay the night if she lets him. Hell, he'll stay in the same chair that Sirius sleeps in—they've crammed themselves into worse and much tighter spaces before.

"Forget I was ever here, Peter. Sometimes, it's nice to entertain the thought that you can call on a friend when you need one, especially after spending years and years of holding that friend up when he needed it most and when he didn't need it at all, but couldn't stand to do something on his own."

XXX

"I've been here for hours, _Jamie_ , and nothing has happened yet." Sirius is lounging on his chair's back legs with an easy grace and a bored expression plastered on his face, as though he's sitting for an examination that he didn't study for at all and doesn't care in the slightest how it will affect his future, instead of a formal interrogation that will place him in handcuffs a second time or send him home with the under- standing that he cannot leave town for a while. "Am I to be held here much longer?" He nibbles at the tip of his thumb and huffs out a particularly loud sigh—he is, of course, under the impression that if he's as obnoxious as possible that James will go ahead and send him home for the evening. "I've got a friend's cat to feed while she's in class in the afternoon. Oh, you know Hermione? All around pal?"

James has told him before that he shouldn't appear so impudent, but he knows his friend has run out of patience. James rubs his temples briskly and fights with every fiber of his being to not roll his eyes at his friend and to sustain his face of passivity and professionalism. "Sirius, please."

"James, you know where I've been all night. How much trouble could I have gotten into between leaving the party and going home? You saw me when I was at home."

"I did see you when you were at home, and I also know just how much trouble you can get in—and how quickly—when you've been drinking."

"I was basically sleepwalking," Sirius deadpans. His chair drops onto all fours with a loud bang and he crosses his arms across his chest. "I want my phone call." When James goes to protest, Sirius raises his eyebrows in a challenge and stops his friend's words with the palm of his hand. "I know my rights. I see them talking about this all the time on the telly."

"Who are you going to call?" James almost adds, 'I'm here; who else could you possibly want to call that could help you more than me?'

"Remus," Sirius says this like it's the simplest thing in the world. "A _loyal_ friend." Sirius places his palms flat on the table in front of him and pushes himself into a standing position. He sways slightly from having sat for far too long, and a rush of blood meets the space in his head between his brain and skull and he has a fleeting moment of panic that he may still be drunk and prays to whatever deities that will listen that James not test him for alcohol content, or whatever it's called.

"Just because I'm _doing my job_ doesn't make me any less loyal of a friend. If any- thing, I'd hoped you'd appreciate the fact that I weaseled my way into coming to get you—Edgar and Amelia were ready to come after you themselves, and they were seeing red. Still are; believe me."

Sirius doesn't say anything to this and stuffs his fists into the pockets of his leather jacket. He feels more steady on his booted feet after breathing deeply several times and holding his breath in, counting slowly: something Hermione'd told him to do, which he thought was a load of waffle, and is irate to see just how much it actually helps. He rolls his eyes, and not for the first time this evening (morning?).

James sits down at the edge of the table now closer to Sirius and entwines his fingers, folding his hands upon his lap, palms up. "Look," he bounces his hands for emphasis and looks over the top of his glasses frames and up at his friend. "Your brother is dead. I know you must be in some form of denial for the shock to have not set in yet. But it will. It probably will when I ask you to go with Amelia to identify the body. But I need your full cooperation on this one, mate. I really do. Someone has died. Do you know how long it's been since something like this has happened here? I'll tell you: too long. We were children when it happened. These things don't happen here, as you know. We were _just_ talking about this. Now, I specifically asked—implored, really— to bring you in myself and talk you down from any anger or irrational stupidity, because people noticed a nasty exchange you had with him—Regulus, _your brother_ , a few weeks ago outside of the Longbottom's store."

Sirius goes to protest, but James stands and places a hand on Sirius's forearm and interrupts him. "I don't care if he instigated it, which is what I'm sure you were about to tell me. The fact of the matter is the two of you have had such bad blood since you were children and if anyone had a motive to do anything to him, it's you. Especially after you pulled a gun on him not too long ago." James bites his lower lip and doesn't bring up that this is the second time that he, James, has known Sirius to pull a gun on someone neither of them are particularly fond of, all in the name of teaching said per- son some strange and threatening lesson.

"That's because he came at Hermione about all of that bullshit he gets up to with the Malfoys!" Sirius breaks himself away from James and pushes his hair back with two shaking hands, his mouth a thin line. "You weren't even _there_ that night. Remus and I had to take the law into our own hands. And you weren't even there to see _Lucius Malfoy_ show up, spouting a bunch of malarkey. I still say this department must get a search warrant and dig through every square centimeter of that house. There's your problem right there."

"Be that as it may," James grimaces at just how much he sounds like their old professors and knows that this must grate on Sirius's nerves, thus making him even more uncooperative with his attentions, "she never pressed charges on Regulus or Mr. Malfoy," Sirius gapes at James for calling Lucius that, "and you and Remus ought to thank your lucky stars that Lucius Malfoy didn't pull some strings to get you both into some trouble that I or others here couldn't help to get you out of."

"I expect Regulus got in enough trouble with his blessed family when he failed to do what they wanted him to do with her. You know, an attempted kidnapping or abduction or whatever." Sirius is gnawing at his thumbnail once more before waving his hand in a rude and dismissive way, indicating that to be James's perceived flippant attitude towards the previous situation. The gnawing bothers James more so than the poor (and untrue) impression of him. It was, after all, a habit that only surfaces in times of extreme duress, and something that James did not like to witness at all. Sirius has, for as long as he could remember, always been the sturdy one, able to handle any- thing thrown his way. It hurts James to see his inward coils of stress come outward into such a childish physical manifestation. James only wishes to reach out and touch his friend, to get him to calm down, to assure him that everything will be okay, even if he doesn't quite believe that himself.

"I don't care what he did or didn't do, Sirius. He was never reported and never indicted. There was nothing else for us to do about him, especially when there wasn't a call for an investigation. What I do care about is there has been a murder and one of my best fucking friends is the prime suspect. I want to take care of you, but you must help me help you."

Sirius goes on as though he hasn't listened to a thing. "I would like to speak to Re- mus."

"Are you sure you wouldn't like to contact a lawyer?" But James absolutely knows the answer to this question: Sirius is not looking for legal advice or any help like that. He is in an indignant enough mood that the only thing that matters to him in this moment is getting ahold of someone who will completely side with him in this situation.

"No." Sirius's tone is clipped and entirely childish. "Remus is smart." James has to fight rolling his eyes over these digs directed towards him. "He's probably read law books at some point and is just as good as one." He means this partially as a joke, but

James doesn't laugh. And Sirius has realized, with a phantom punch to his gut that this is his second most sobering moment of this late, late night. Perhaps more sobering than the moment James came into his home to tell him what had happened to begin with. The realization being that his jokes are no good here, and he cannot laugh him- self or others out of this situation. He wonders why he hasn't had the chance to go view the body yet, but he's sure if he did, that would make it seem more real and he wouldn't be at all any more cooperative than he is now, which is the best he can afford to give James.

Instead of laughing or offering any sort of physical comfort, James steps aside and grants Sirius access to the very ancient rotary on the wall. James holds himself tightly, his worry lines more prominent than ever before etched into his still-young face, and his arms crossed not in a protective or standoffish manner, but in a way that he seems to be holding himself, comforting himself. He doesn't know what else to do—he's nev- er had to deal with something like his for work, and he's never had to deliver this sort of bad news before.

Sirius picks up the receiver and cradles it between his ear and shoulder as he spins the dial to call up Remus's home phone number. There's a waxy sheen on the dial and Sirius's fingertip now feels slick with some kind of grime accumulated from all of its previous users. He glances up at the clock on the wall and notices it's nearly five in the morning. Sirius turns his back to James so he doesn't have to watch his friend watch him. He really wants to tell James if he must be interrogating anyone, then it should be his own wife. Sirius just Knows that she's spoken to Severus Snape as of late and that if anyone has any reliable and accurate information about what has happened to Regulus, it would be that greasy git. And if anyone could get the information from old Snivelly, it would be his queen and savior, Lily Evans-Potter herself. Sirius rolls his eyes and presses his forehead into the grimy wall space that the phone is fastened to and it feels much worse than his finger did when touching the phone's slick number holes.

The line is ringing. Sirius clears his throat, if anything, to hear a sound apart from the oppressive ticking of the clock overhead.

And anyway, Sirius is afraid that James may be right about the whole denial thing and the reality of the situation not settling upon him yet, despite the fact that in this moment he feels more awake and alert than ever before in his life—he feels absolutely shaken to his core, and can taste the rude reality check that's to come in. That the world as he has always known and understood it to be is about to shift and pull a metaphorical rug right our from under him. Sirius knows that speaking to Remus will ground him in this moment and that he'll know what to do, probably almost immediately after hanging up from him.

He knows that there's no way anyone else at the station (and especially James) has gotten to him first, so he will be totally blessed with Remus giving him the benefit of the doubt: something that Sirius always craves from his friend when he is in trouble, but also abuses whenever given the chance. Not that Remus has ever minded; in fact, he's always seemed to be the enabler and would let Sirius get away with murder (to turn an ironic and distasteful phrase), all for the sake of holding onto their friendship. And yet, he knows himself to be better than that and he knows Remus to be better than that.

Good friends just let each other get away with most things, and hold one another accountable for the rest where it really matters. And best friends kick one another's asses, so to speak, when it really matters the most, and he's had Remus to do all of these things, and Sirius has done these less for Remus (albeit, it has been happening more recently due to the strange contention that has wormed its way into his relation- ships with his long-time partner and a student).

He curls the phone's cord around one long finger and holds it so tight that the tip turns pale and then a slowly forming bluish purple. He lets the cord go and it wobbles away from his finger, and he studies the indents it left upon his skin.

The line is still ringing, and each shrill, piercing tone burrows its way into the middle of his head making it ache even further, and almost taking him away to another far off place, going some place outside the realm of his mind and the confines of this interrogation room.

'Perhaps,' Sirius thinks, 'I should have rang Hermione. She would likely have known what to do, as well. Better than Remus would have, even.'

"He's not going to pick up, Sirius," James is saying, sounding from far away instead of near next to him, stuffing his hands in his pockets, fiddling with the loose change and random debris clinging to the inner folds of fabric. "Hang up, mate." His voice is curt, as he's low on patience and sleep.

But the line clicks and Sirius thinks he's just about caught the answering machine (does Remus even have one? Sirius doesn't recall the line ever ringing long enough for him to ever having left a message), until a groggy voice answers.

"Do you have _any_ idea what time it is right now?" The speaker doesn't try very hard to stifle their yawn.

Sirius's eyes slam shut in immediate annoyance, but responds in a too cheerful tone, "Hello, cousin."

Dora groans, dropping all usual affectionate teasing and warm tidings she keeps reserved for him. "What do you want, Sirius?" He bites back a harsh remark that she sounds so much like Narcissa this early in the morning.

"What, you're not happy to hear from me?" He snaps back, knowing full well that now is not the time to incite any ill-being directed towards the one person who could potentially help him at this time. He also finds it odd that she's been asleep and no one at the station thought to call her during this very serious time, as she is a junior deputy on the force and shadows James and the Bones constantly. Not to mention that Regulus is family to her, as well.

"I'm not happy to hear from _anyone_ who wakes me up an hour before my work alarm goes off. Somebody better be dead."

'Funnily enough, Nymphadora, they are,' he thinks, but doesn't say. Instead, he asks, "Is Remus around?"

She sniffs at this question and Sirius can see her rubbing briskly at her eyes with her free hand's open palm, a furrow set tightly upon her brow and a harden look washing over her angular features. "No; I thought he'd be with you of all people. Un- less, of course, he's already with _her,_ " the last bit is mumbled, but Sirius still catches it, nonetheless. And he's not quite sure what she's talking about anyway.

"No, not with me. I haven't seen him since the party."

"As I said, Sirius, he's not here. And to be frank, I don't rightly care where he is tonight. Now unless—"

Sirius doesn't have time to ask her what's happened between them, or to even check if she's okay. He can feel James's annoyance growing with each loud and echoing second that ticks by from the clock overhead and figures this call must be kept short—he's already wasted enough time on waiting for her to pick up at all. And he feels like he's losing her attention enough as it is, believing she's about to hang up.

"Regulus is dead," Sirius blurts out. "You said someone better be dead," he adds quickly, "and well, they are. Just not the person you'd expect, I suppose."

"Regulus is dead," is all she says in a hollow echo of what he's just told her.

"And I was trying to reach Remus," Sirius continues in the same rapid blathering before her attentions wane once more, "because he always knows what to do in situations like this." He says this as though they deal with dead people constantly and that

Remus is the designated decision maker in these instances. "And James came to arrest me at my _house_ ," he whips around enough to roll his eyes at James, who huffs in return and turns his attentions to a water stain on the table they were just at. "They think that I did it, and I didn't of course, and I don't know what to do now. Thoughts?" He says this as though they're working on a group project together and he's just offered up a series of options and is asking the rest of the group to weigh in.

"Sirius." He is mad at himself that he finds comfort in the fact that she hasn't start- ed crying, like he hadn't, either. "This is a lot to take in. And you're just rattling things off. And acting like an absolute buffoon. Your brother is dead. Please, put the jokes aside and take care of business. You're the eldest. It's time to start acting like it."

This is _not_ how the phone call was supposed to go. He was looking for someone to rescue him so that he could just process being held in custody period, and then take care of business (maybe) once he got released. "I haven't even seen the body yet! How do I even know it's really him?"

"Would James ever trick you like that? Are you serious?"

She screeches that, and then hangs up on him. But she was loud enough that he's sure James heard her, because when he hangs up the receiver gently, he turns to find James looking at him.

There's a pitying look which Sirius hasn't seen James give him for some time now— at least since they were children when Sirius finally revealed to him in hushed tones stories about his abusive and traumatic childhood home and life before James's parents adamantly moved to emancipate Sirius from his biological family. It wasn't so much a formal adoption as it was an extended sleep over until he and James turned of age and rented out a shared flat downtown above the shop they worked in while they went to university. And though James's father had political sway during Sirius's childhood, Orion Black's hands reached out to far more powerful law enforcement and more influential individuals such as the Malfoys that nothing ever became of he or Walburga and their transgressions against their oldest child.

In short, it was always another example of how the wrong families have had the longest, tightest, and furthest-reaching stranglehold on one town. Sirius had always wondered why he just never up and left this town like so many other people hadn't, but it was always something about the Black's Grimmauld Place never being his house, his home, but the _Hollow_ was just as much his as it was anyone else's. And be- sides, this is where his friends—his adopted and selected family, and only support sys- tem and love he'd ever known—settled here and they'd gotten married and pregnant or acquired decent, if not dream, jobs. And who was Sirius to get in the way of that, especially once he was able to carve out his own success and happiness, albeit belatedly?

There are loose memories about his childhood, about his parents, that rattle in the back of his mind from time to time. They're smoky images, and there are no connecting threads to really let him remember specifics or times, but there's always one similar image that plays on a loop when he thinks very hard about it and really pushes himself to remember: the Malfoy's estate in the background, as Sirius is being led deeper into the woods by his mother—the first and only time he can ever remember her holding his hand anywhere. People dressed in black, wearing hoods, standing in a circle around a fire at a distance.

His mother, severe and austere as always, was also dressed in black and she squeezed his hand hard: not in a way meant to comfort, but in a way to command attention and obedience. Sirius knew the pressure well, though it was mostly on his shoulders when it happened or in the crook of his neck, right where an important and sensitive nerve lay, and it was mostly done by his father, whose touch was far more relenting (but not less painful in any sense) than his mother's, surprisingly enough.

She spoke quietly to him while she steered him deeper into the forest. The walk felt like it took forever, and he remembers wishing that they could have just walked like that and kept walking, as though on a treadmill, instead of reaching their destination. And he can remember wishing he hadn't heard a thing she'd forced him to listen to, but he still hears it in dreams. And he even hears it when he's left alone for too long, as though she is a poltergeist that follows him everywhere he goes, just to re- mind him of who he is.

"The universe speaks volumes to you and in such ways that you can't even begin to comprehend, Sirius. There are galaxies inside of you, just as you are in them. The gods smile down upon you and have touched you and have therefore touched this family. They will whisper the Truth that lives inside of each person you'll come across in your life time. In time, you shall realize exactly what I'm telling you now, and this ceremony will have all been worth it. Father is offered the first born of the most noble families of this town. You will not disappoint the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black."

He remembers being passed around to anonymous people, for them to study his face. They questioned him about his inner thoughts. He was too afraid to tell them what he could See and what he Knew about them, so he lied every time and he re- members Father's disgusted voice ordering the branding ceremony to continue any- way. He remembers the branding of strange shapes and symbols into his flesh that night and later a smaller masked and hooded figure, most likely a child close to his age, cleaning his wounds with a small hand towel and salve in the dead of night once the adults went away. He remembers the scars, and knows them well, and it wasn't un- til he was much older that he drew which symbols he could see on a scrap sheet of paper and showed them to Remus, asking what they meant. It took Remus a few days of research to figure them out and he missed out on so much sleep just so he could help his friend. Remus never asked to see the burns first hand, and Sirius was grateful.

Sirius used to remember what each individual rune meant, but what it boiled down to was something about them being alchemical symbols meant to inspire or initiate something related to immortality.

After graduating, Sirius took a trip on his motorbike to the furthest city he could afford and found a tattoo artist to doodle whatever they wanted to upon his body to not just hide the runes, but ruin whatever hold they'd had on him since childhood—he'd hoped it would cancel out whatever strange mind power he had. If anything, it just made the intrusive thoughts from others even louder and clearer, but if anyone ever saw him without his clothes on, they wouldn't be able to discern the brandings from the tattoos, and he could just make something up about all of them. And ever since then, he hadn't been frightened of anyone finding out about them at all.

Until Hermione.

Until Hermione playful tugged his shirt down and she almost saw whatever des- tiny had been forced upon him from a young age, forged in flames, and etched into his chest. He'd frozen. For the first time in his life, he couldn't think of one plausible lie to tell someone. And he Knew something else about her, as well. She'd be the one to shake up the foundation of the Family and the Malfoys. And she'd be the one to see Sirius for who he truly was.

It was just a damned shame that her soul happened to be tied to Remus's rather than his own.

XXX

Hermione goes home alone after her birthday party. Ron was so distraught after her dance with Remus that Harry stepped in with some damage control and told her that he would be taking her too drunk and angry boyfriend home with him to let him sleep off these ill feelings. Hermione didn't put up much of a fight at all, knowing that she should have shown a bit more solidarity and loyalty to her longtime boyfriend, but honestly, she believes that they've both done a bit of showing their true colors to one another since he arrived (almost too early for her birthday weekend, she thinks, but didn't tell him when he ultimately showed up at her front door on that first night).

She'd thought that she'd be able to go to sleep once she'd gotten in. To be honest, she'd overindulged for her standards, especially after the hurtful remarks that Ron had left her with after he approached her after her dance with Remus. She'd reached out to Draco and Luna after the nasty exchange.

Draco had told her, leaning into her from overindulging with an entire bottle of campaign to himself, that no one would remember this night with any bad memories. "They're having too good of a time. Don't be embarrassed with your boyfriend for trying to start a row; I think most of us expected that from him. He didn't seem to be in the best of mood when he showed up to begin with." He scooped her under one of his long arms and smiled down at her. And she knew that he was only this kind because he had been drinking, but she was glad to see him smile this genuinely. "Forget about him. Don't let him ruin your night. And besides, Potter's got it under control from what I can tell."

And he did have it under control.

Hermione hates to think that the better birthday gift Harry had given her was not the thoughtful wrapped item in question that's still at Sirius's bar, but the time he had given her to be alone and away from her boyfriend.

She sighs heavily over this private admission and shoots a baleful glance over at Ron's bag full of soccer gear and clothes that has seemingly exploded overnight, that he hasn't had the courtesy to clean up since he got here, other than pile his sweaty and stinking and smelling articles into a damp pile currently fermenting upon her floor—an unspoken physical example of the washing that she needs to do for him.

She toes the clothes further away from her bed and closer to his open and rancid bag, nudging them into its unzipped and open mouth. She can hear the waves of future protest to come from this motion, 'Mione, you've put my dirty clothes on top of my new clothes!' and in that moment, she could muster no fucks to give.

She strips from her day clothes and pulls on some nightwear and she is amazed that she doesn't fall completely over from the level of tipsy and near drunk that she'd reached at some point in the night. She digs at the top shelf of her meager sized clos- et for a clean pullover hooded sweatshirt and tugs it over her great and now messy bounty of curls.

Crookshanks mewls from the top of her made bed and paws at her pillow to show that he is quite ready for bedtime and wishes for her to join him for a series of pets and ear scratches to lull him to sleep.

Her head is already pounding and while she would love to join her beloved ginger cat more than anything on this too-late night, she pads over to her very small bathroom and takes a fistful of headache pills and washes them down with great, greedy gulps of water straight from the bathroom tap, not even bothering to have it fill a small glass.

She gives her laptop a fleeting glance and wonders if she ought to check her email account. No doubt it would just be full of social calls and the like, since professors didn't send professional or homework inquiries past 5pm on a Friday afternoon. And then, it would take too long for the computer itself to boot up at all, anyway, so it wouldn't be worth it to sit and wait for dozens of minutes when she could instead make some buttered toast that she could slather with jam and munch on it before brushing her teeth and then finally going to sleep with her beloved familiar.

The toast pops out of the toaster at the moment that someone is knocking at her front door.

She rolls her eyes instead of furrowing her eyebrows at this super late night intrusion, thinking it's Sirius wanting to pop over and spend the night in her armchair, yet again. She grumbles about how this needs to be s short visit before pulling herself to her front door and pulling it open to find a completely disheveled and soaking wet Remus Lupin with sad eyes looking down at her.

"Miss Granger," he greets her with a small smile, allowing his rucksack to rest against his feet and shins for hopefully the last time this evening.

"Professor Lupin," is the only way she can think to answer back. Her mouth feels dry and numb all at the same time and she all at once does not want the toast that she had been thinking about all on her way home (Luna had given she and Draco a ride back, having not drank anything herself and the two girls helped the tall blonde young man back into his own apartment).

"Please forgive me for the absolutely inconvenient and unexpected intrusion I've brought to your door this evening." He nibbles absentmindedly at his lower lip and Hermione watches each movement with such a strong twinge of longing that she doesn't even know who she is anymore until he starts speaking again to break her out of her reverie. "I don't have anywhere else to go."

"Please, come in."

And he does. She moves away from her front door and lets him follow her inside, noticing that he tries his best to look everywhere but at her underdressed form. He lay his sopping wet bag upon her welcome mat inside, that she doesn't care that it's soaking up all of the dampness from the outside that it has brought in. She chides herself for nearly swooning over his consideration and decency.

He peels off his outer coat and she jumps towards the small closet by her front door to hand him a hanger to place it upon and she hangs it up in the closet with its door still open, hoping that the circulating air will dry it overnight. Supposing that he will be staying overnight, that is. But it seems like he will be and she is beside herself on what to do about that.

"Is Sirius here?" He asks with an earnest shine to his face, looking around her small studio, expecting the man to be around somewhere. Remus is hoping that Sirius is currently indisposed in the bathroom at the moment, which would explain his lack of appearance anywhere else in his student's home at the moment.

"He's not." This time she does furrow her brow and crosses her arms against her chest to keep herself warm against the damp that he's brought inside as well as this melancholic mood. "I'm sorry. I know that sometimes this is where he can be found when he isn't at work, or at home. But, I've not seen him since the party." Now it's her turn to nibble at her own lip, which Remus cannot take his eyes off of. She forces her- self to ask the next natural question. "Is he in trouble?"

"I don't know." And Remus's sinking stomach brings a different kind of unsteady calamity to his face in this moment to which Hermione finds herself worrying with him. "You're sure you haven't seen him at all? He didn't accompany you home at some point?" This is a habit Remus knows Sirius has with the younger woman, especially when drinking has been an activity for the evening.

"No, not at all. Luna brought Draco and I home a bit earlier."

Remus frowns, stressing the deep worry lines in his face and for a moment, she can she just how tired he is and she wonders if anyone's slept this night.

"Would you like to call him?" Hermione gestures towards her landline and Remus gives it a glance.

"I think so," he says slowly, moving towards it on legs that don't feel like they're his.

She watches him, now more alert than ever, already have forgotten about toast and lying in bed with Crookshanks until they both fell asleep.

"No answer," he says, a hand pressed hard into his hip and hangs the receiver up. "I think I'll try James."

He gives her a hard look and her eyes widen as her stomach drops.

"Do you think he made it home?" She wonders. "He didn't drive; you don't think he got hurt or something on his walk home, do you?" Her question is cut off by a wavering tremor in her voice and Remus steps closer to her, gently grasping her shoulder in his hand. She looks up at him and places her hand on his forearm, gripping at his cardigan sleeve.

"I'll try James," he tells her again, nudging her closer to him. He dials the Potters' number from memory, not losing eye contact with her the whole time, and she enfolds herself into his chest with a slight shiver. His arm snakes around her shoulders to com- fort her, his chin resting on top of her head and he's overwhelmed with the smell of vanilla and just _her_ and he's afraid he'll be sent into a frenzy, rendering him unable to speak should someone answer.

"Potters," a voice finally says on the other end.

Remus clears his throat and presses his nose into Hermione's hair, shutting his eyes softly before bringing himself back to the speaker on the other end of the line. "Lily. It's Remus."

"I know it's you." He can hear her rolling her eyes on the other end and he smiles slightly at that, all at once feeling as though everything will be all right.

"Have you heard from Sirius?"

"Oh," she says, a crestfallen pitch pulling its way from her chest and out of her mouth. "Oh, you haven't heard?"

Remus pulls himself away from Hermione. "Haven't heard what?"

Hermione looks at him, a frown forming on her forehead, mouthing 'what?' at him. She stands on the tips of her toes, reaching to listen with him and he angles himself to where they can both listen.

"James had to take Sirius into the station for questioning." " _What_?" "They found a body in the woods tonight. They think it's Regulus, and James had

to go get Sirius from his house." Remus and Hermione share a perplexed and wild look. "So he's okay?" "Apart from what he's had to deal with there, yeah I'd guess he's all right." "Thank you, Lily." "Why are you looking for him this late?" Lily demands. "I'll tell you later," and he hangs up on her abruptly. Knowing Lily and her temper, she'd probably try to call back and give him an earful about manners or save that up for the next time that they see one another again.

"Regulus?" Hermione asks, unspilled tears shining in her eyes. "You don't think Sir- ius attacked him because of what happened weeks ago?"

Remus covers his face with both hands before plunging them into his hair. "I don't know, Hermione. If he drank enough, probably. I don't know. Come on."

XXX

Hermione is pacing the floor in the waiting room of the police station and can hear Remus and James shouting at one another in a back office with the blinds drawn and the door shut.

"Come off it, James." Remus says loudly, but still in his familiar mild mannered tone. "You know Sirius would never do anything like that. You must let him off. I im- plore you to do the right thing."

"I can't use my influence like that, Remus. You know that would cry nepotism." James sounds more hotheaded, as though he's been accused of doing something in- credibly asinine. He's far more angry at being accused of being a disloyal friend than anything else.

"Nepotism!" Remus is shouting now, followed by a derisive laugh. Hermione and the front desk receptionist share a glance that says 'yikes'. Remus won't let James off with that simple outburst. "You mean the mysteriously functioning phenomenon that has been in place in this damn town since its inception?"

"You better watch yourself, Lupin."

"Oh, we're back to surnames now, are we? Okay _Officer_ , I just hoped that in times like these, the law would believe something a trusted and old friend is telling them." Remus's voice has gone cold.

The front door opens and Hermione (as well as the nosy receptionist) turn their attentions to the two men leaving the room.

"At least let me see him. Or let Hermione see him," Remus pleads, his face now more relaxed and his tone much more therapeutic. "She's quite worried."

"You can see him when we release him." James says, crossing his arms, telling them 'that is that.'

"When will that be?" Hermione asks, drawing herself up to her full height.

James is taken aback and glares at her. "Tomorrow evening at the absolute latest. I'll tell him you two stopped by. I'll tell him to call one of you as soon as he's out."

XXX

The first beautiful late afternoon in a long time. The sky is still so blue as the sun goes down and the red and orange foliage look absolutely picturesque on the sky's backdrop and Hermione wonders if Sirius would be home soon. She's crossing the campus to head to the Humanities building to return some research and materials to Remus. She hasn't spoken to him since the evening before and they're both running on only a couple of hours of sleep. She'd hoped that he would spend the night in the chair that Sirius usually sleeps in, but Remus demanded that she let him leave—that he's already been involved in far too many inappropriate altercations with her thus far this semester. He told her that he would use the key to his borrowed study carrel in the library to rest in until the morning. She told him that he ought to cancel his classes for the day and catch up on some sleep, but he went ahead and left her apartment as though she hadn't said anything at all.

Hermione slips inside the building when someone holds the door open for her, her arms full of many heavy books, and jams the elevator's up button. She's well aware that she should have come sooner, before her morning afternoon classes, but she hasn't been able to even think about him ever since their dance together at her birth- day party or how ragged they'd both felt and looked the night before.

It's almost a surprise visit and she knows she should have made an appointment with him earlier in the week to know if he'd be available for sure. He may have taken her advice and stayed home this day, after all. But, he is free most Mondays (he has a morning class with the undergraduates), and is usually wrapping up and raring to leave by four in the afternoon. But when she gets to the cluster of offices at his end of the hallway off the main office, she finds his door shut with a note declaring that he is out of his office, and it appears that the lights are off.

"Professor Lupin is sick again," a voice off to the side calls out, and the admission is almost in singsong. And though the statement is something that should usually be marked with empathy or pity, Hermione can't help but notice the sheer, sickening undertone of mirth that's concealed in the declaration.

"He's always sick. Have you ever noticed it?" Here is where the concern comes in, but it's in a very patronizing way and Hermione feels a flush of anger run through her system before she turns on her heel to look hard at the two young women sitting on the sofa in the corner. "But I guess you hadn't. You're still new here, although you've cozied up to certain people all too quickly."

Hermione knows they must be referencing Draco, and possibly Sirius. She hadn't forgotten how one of them (or both) had expressed keen interest in the latter.

"Hello, Pansy. Daphne." She gives them a swift look as she dumps her armful of books into an untidy stack upon one of the end tables near their small sofa.

The two are regarding Hermione with something only related to pure glee. They look at each other and share a silent conversation with pointed looks and wide eyes before gracing Hermione with their attentions once more. Pansy nudges Daphne with her elbow and Daphne says,

"How _are_ you, Hermione?" There's a sickening layer of false concern plastered all over her face.

Hermione's hands fly to her hips and she holds herself in a way to showcase the level of pure loathing and annoyance she's feeling. "Fine."

"We heard about your friend." Pansy says seriously, frowning and holding her face in a false open and vulnerable way, as though she's trying to convey to Hermione how sorry she is for a family member's passing.

"Which one?" Hermione asks, fighting to keep her voice strong and a haughty expression plastered on her face (similar to the one she sees Draco use quite frequently when he wants someone to leave him alone).

"You haven't heard?" Daphne smirks, eyes shining bright with pure amusement. "I mean, it's all over town and the school."

"What?" Hermione asks, shrugging her shoulders in a flippant way.

"Sirius Black's killed his brother," Daphne breathes and Pansy lets out a small shriek before adding in a murmur,

"He's always been _so_ creepy."

Hermione is absolutely speechless—both of them were all but salivating over Sirius the first time she had the misfortune to come across them at the Malfoy's party, which seemed to be eons ago.

" _We_ heard from a reliable source," Daphne continues, sitting primly on her sofa cushion with an air of a gossiping housewife rather than a twenty something young woman, "that it's all because of you."

"What?" Hermione's heart rate sped up at this announcement, but her voice does not betray her in this moment.

"Oh, yes. Something about sibling rivalry over the woman they both love." Daphne reaches into her too-large and very expensive black leather purse and thrusts a news- paper into Hermione's chest.

' _Rivalry Tears Apart Last Living Members of Black Family, Leaving Youngest, Regulus Black, DEAD'_ by Rita Skeeter

' _It has been common knowledge for some years now that Sirius Black, aged 39, and Regulus Black, 36, have had a bloodlust for one another as both have spent years vying for the Black family fortune. Only until recently has that bloodlust and sibling rivalry transcended into each brother's personal and love lives as they have spent the past several months contending for the love and affection of one very plain, but meddlesome outsider turned local university student, Hermione Granger, 21.'_ Hermione shakes the paper almost violently in her hands. She is not that young, and how dare this Skeeter woman utilize this terrible time in Sirius's life for pure sensationalism? _'Miss Granger, seemingly bored with her studies, has spend much of her time in Godric's Hollow toying with many men's emotions, most notably Sirius Black and heir to the Malfoy name, Draco Malfoy.'_

Hermione can't read anymore and balls the paper up and throws it at Daphne, who scoffs at her.

"What? Can't handle the truth?" Her grin is so wide that she puts Hermione in mind of a toad.

"It's pure slander!" Hermione shouts, forcing some passersby at the other end of the hallway to flinch and look down at the three young women before scurrying away.

"Rita's seemed to have left out that you're also highly interested in forbidden Professor Lupin, who _I_ heard broke off his engagement for you. And now he's not on cam- pus today. Perhaps he's gone after Sirius Black for trying to take you away from him?" Pansy offers, a very hungry look in her eyes, waiting for any response Hermione gives.

"I am _not_ interested in Professor Lupin," Hermione retorts hotly, heat rising to her cheeks that she hopes the girls take as a physical manifestation of anger and not slight embarrassment. "We are colleagues. And it is childish and absolutely idiotic of you two to believe in such dime store paperback level of lies, and to believe that Professor Lupin and myself have anything but a professional relationship."

Pansy stands up, flushed with anger herself. "Idiotic you say? Then what excuse do you have for this?" She digs in her own designer bag and brandishes a grainy photo- graph at Hermione, who already knows what it is before she even glances at it: her and Remus dancing together at her birthday.

"Are you _spying_ on me?" Hermione has half the mind to tear the photo in two, but there are undoubtedly copies.

"Not spying, but I guess you didn't think that we would show up to the party to take photos to include in our zine that celebrates the level of entertainment this town has to offer. It hasn't been published yet."

"What can you give us in exchange to keep your dirty little secret?" Daphne is standing now, arms folded, and the epitome of smug.

"There's no secret to be kept." Hermione feels sick to her stomach, and her hands are shaking.

"Hermione, whether we believe you or not, we trust that you're intelligent enough to understand a picture is worth a thousand words. People will interpret this as they wish to; the administration of this school will interpret this as they wish to."

"What do you want?" Hermione asks behind clenched teeth.

"A date with Draco," Pansy asks swiftly. "And, we want the truth about Sirius Black. Why would he kill his brother? Better yet, if he didn't, then who did? You're friends with James Potter and his son; I'm sure you could get access to the evidence room and the testimonies that are about to take place."

"Why do you want to know this?" Hermione wants to know herself and planned on grilling Sirius the moment she sees him again.

"Because something weird has been going on in town ever since you showed up. We know you're not stupid. We know you notice it, too. We want in on whatever information you can get, starting with Draco. I know he knows far too much, and that he's full of secrets. You get this information for us, and we'll publish a massive expose on this town, and we'll leave you and your scholarly boyfriend alone."

XXX


End file.
